The Twelve Days of Crimson
by LittleMender
Summary: Lisbon had eventually accepted the changes in him as absolution for his killing Red John, but it had not taken Jane long to realize he could not be content with absolution alone. Installment #11 in the Holiday/Next Time Series.
1. Chapter 1

**As promised to many of you, this is the multi-chapter installment leading up to the conclusion of the Holiday/Next Time Series. The title of each chapter is a line taken from a traditional Western Christmas carol. When I started this series a year ago, it was with a Christmas one-shot that led some readers to request a series for the holidays which, in turn, inspired me to try and meet the challenge. I am so grateful for the support and encouragement you've all given me through reading and reviewing these little stories. I hope you enjoy this next offering.**

**Number 11 in the Holiday/Next Time Series**

**THE TWELVE DAYS OF CRIMSON**

_Previously, in "Safely Gathered In", the Thanksgiving "Next Time" installment, in which Red John is actually dead by Jane's hand:_

_. . . after Jane fell off of a mountain and broke through the ice, after Lisbon took his hand in the hospital and forgave, after they all went back to the CBI knowing everything was changed but still not sure exactly where they stood, when Thanksgiving was gone and Christmas had been ushered in, against all odds, and from the grave . . ._

_Red John took another wife._

1. THE HOPES AND FEARS  
><em>- O Little Town of Bethlehem<em>

"I thought . . . I mean . . . Jane was sure, right? We were all sure?"

Lisbon well understood Rigsby's bewilderment. Every Red John scene they had viewed over the past several years had left them frustrated and dismayed. But to see it like this, when they were so positive it was over . . .

"Yeah, Wayne," she answered thickly. "We were—we _are_ sure."

"Then what . . .?"

"It's someone else."

"A copycat?"

The defeat in those two words alone was heartbreaking, and it took everything in her to not give into it herself. For the first time, her primary consideration couldn't be how Jane was taking the situation. Red John had taken something from all of them, even in the last moments of his life. She turned and surveyed the rest of her team: Rigsby, wide-eyed and haunted, swallowing almost convulsively, trying desperately to keep his despair in check; Cho, closed mouthed, his posture rigid, gritting his teeth so hard she could almost hear the crackle of his tensed jaw; Jane, breathing deep and measured, only his eyes moving from place to place, article to article, taking in the scene in its entirety as well as piece by piece but unmoving as if he didn't want to startle the rest of them.

Her eyes came to rest on Grace. Standing at the window, she had turned her back on the scene. Like Lisbon's second, Van Pelt's lips were sealed into a thin, grim line. But where Cho was fiercely irritated and frustrated by the situation, the forward thrust of the young agent's jaw and hard glittering of her eyes gave away her true feelings.

She was angry. That didn't concern Lisbon—she understood the feeling. Van Pelt had lost more than anyone in the final exchange, even Jane with his initial shock and eventual emotional upheaval. Lisbon shuddered at her own hurt and grief over the way Red John had ended. At least she was getting something of what she had lost back. What was of concern to the unit leader now and what she had only scant seconds to wonder at was that Grace didn't seem surprised.

The CSU at her side tentatively touched her elbow, and she realized she had missed his soft query as to whether they could start work on the scene. She raised her palm to him, softly commanded, "Give us a minute", and turned back to the room, his solemn nod an assurance that they wouldn't be bothered until they were well and truly finished. Their exchange caused a shift in the room, and when Jane's eyes drifted to hers and she gave him a small nod of permission, he began to roam, taking his hands from his pockets to touch a picture here, a scribbled note there. The spell broken, the others came to life, taking pictures and making quiet comments to draw attention to anything that may be of importance, even Jane sharing observations, each of them willing _all_ of them to see and know everything worth knowing, the consummate team.

It had been hard for him to believe at first that it was over, even as he had lain on the jail cell cot looking up at the uneven plaster work of the ceiling. It had been just as difficult to grasp that Red John had become so much a fixture in his life that not only had Jane been unable to consider what his life might be like once the murderer was gone, in those first few days he had been nonplussed by his inability to contemplate life without him. Eventually, the bizarreness of it all had worn off, and his psyche had righted itself, acclimating to the possibility of life going on, as well as his actually _living_ it. He was just settling in to the idea mostly, he was willing to admit, due to the ongoing healing of his relationship with Lisbon. He attributed the shock at what he saw before him to the newness of it all. And although he _was_ shocked, he counted his lack of foresight of this probability to be the real failing.

Of course, Red John would have had friends—followers. It would have been foolhardy to believe they would merely go their own way, back to normal lives or, what was more likely, attach themselves to some other psychopath. They would want retribution, want someone to pay. What confused him was why not him? Why this girl?

And girl she was. He judged that she couldn't have been more that nineteen or twenty years old. She had managed to snag a single in a C.S.U. Sacramento dorm, and coursework from an advanced anatomy class laid spread out across her desk. A pair of discarded scrub pants hanging over her chair—she had worn the top to bed—evidenced her field of study as nursing, probably second or third year. He reached beyond the obvious, trying for a deeper glimpse of her. A photograph of her with an older couple he assumed to be her parents, judging by her resemblance to the man, had been taken fairly recently. The smiling faces were genuinely happy. Another picture of the victim with a dog and a boy roughly four years her junior, autumn-colored trees behind them evenly spaced and as well manicured as the grass, indicated a single sibling judging by the shared similarity between eye and brow, as well as a smile matching that of the woman in the other photograph. He paused in his perusals to turn his head and look over his shoulder at the sound of Cho's voice.

"Driver's license says her name is Chelsea Carlisle. Just turned twenty last week. License is about two-and-a-half years old." He held it in his latex-gloved hand, the other hand holding her woven purse open for further search. His lips pushed together hard in a grimace. "Organ donor."

"Well, that's moot now," Jane said somewhat distractedly as he turned back to his own investigating. Something about this was wrong. Not just the regular and completely understandable wrong, but an irregular, scratching-at-the-back-of-his-brain wrong. It was just out of reach, and he was immediately frustrated and worried that he couldn't put his intellectual finger on it.

"The date on the license suggests she's probably from out of state. Maybe took up residence here, probably going to summer school," Lisbon's voice cut through his musings.

"Most likely from the Midwest. North," Jane interjected. "Lived in the city. Near a park."

Lisbon nodded in acceptance not bothering to ask how he might know that. "Van Pelt, find the RA. If he's done throwing up maybe you can get something useful out of him. Then call the school of nursing and see if you can get more background on her."

Van Pelt strode from the room to carry out orders, Lisbon's eyes on her, Jane's eyes on Lisbon. Cho had brought Chelsea Carlisle's purse to her desk and dropped it in favor of her book satchel. Without turning his gaze from their leader, Jane's quiet voice floated back to the agent.

"She seem worked up to you? A little more . . . angsty than usual?"

Cho paused in his examination of biology, chemistry and literature books and followed the consultant's line of sight.

"Which one?"

"The red-headed one."

"Yeah." His head dipped to get a better look at the bag's interior. "She's been pretty keyed up since we got the call. Hasn't said a word since we headed down to the parking lot."

Cho paused to look back at Jane, discomfited by his continued preoccupation with the subject instead of the case at hand as well as his continued staring at Lisbon.

"It's understandable," the agent reasoned. "O'Laughlin . . . and everything really screwed with her head. It'll take a while for her to get over it."

"Understandable," Jane muttered, one hand out of his pocket now, trailing slowly up and down his vest.

"Hey," Cho elbowed him. "You on this?"

Jane turned abruptly at the tone of voice and realized the simple question indicated a more complicated concern, probably several of them.

"Yeah. Yes. I'm fine. Just taking everything in."

Cho gave a single nod, satisfied enough with the answer, before putting the books back and dropping purse and satchel into a CSU box. Lisbon queried a "Finished?" to which Jane gave a suddenly alert nod, and they left the scene to the techs.

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Chelsea Carlisle was from a happy home in St. Paul, Minnesota. She had practically grown up on the soccer fields playing mid, and the family still had the golden retriever she'd gotten as a fourteenth birthday present. She was a 4.0 student, over achiever and enjoyed it, natural-born leader and high school senior class president. Jane knew the only positive for Lisbon was that she wasn't the one that had to inform the family. On the flip-side, he knew she wasn't looking forward to interviewing them or the obligatory visit to the morgue.

He stood just outside the break room, teacup in hand, and gently blew across the top of the steaming liquid watching Lisbon where she sat in her office. She was staring at her laptop, and he knew that if the blinds were drawn she would have given into the urge to lean her head into her hands. With them open, it would be most uncharacteristic of her to give herself away in an action that would suggest weakness or hopelessness, especially in view of the troops.

So, when she pushed the computer away, crossed her arms and lowered her head to rest on them, his feet were moving, carrying him to her before the shock registered. Pushing through her door, he immediately walked to the corner table and rested his cup and saucer there before moving around the room to quickly and quietly close the blinds. The fact that she didn't raise her head to question him about it had his concern mounting exponentially.

All blind cords pulled and the outside world shut away, he turned to her, realizing at the last moment that his hand was outstretched, reaching for her. He paused, uncertain for a moment, before letting it drop, instead walking back to collect his tea then moving to the couch where he sipped without tasting and waited. As always when he had a quiet moment, thoughts of the small woman now sitting a few feet away from him and silently falling apart before she pulled herself back together mounted a barrage against him.

He knew the others thought she had forgiven him for killing Red John, for—what was in her mind—murdering him. And he knew she was right to hold that opinion. Even though he hadn't planned it for that particular day, even though using a gun hadn't been his first choice, even though a jury had acquitted him of the deed, the thought of it had been seven-plus years in the premeditating. But he had come to know Lisbon over the years and much better in the past few months. She was pragmatic but complex, predictable but deep, closed off but capable of great feeling. In the end, she had realized her forgiveness wasn't necessary. Jane's offense in its purity was not against her. The obstacle had been her inability to accept; accept that he had done what he had always said he would do, accept that a jury had acquitted (not actually found him innocent) and—what was most difficult for her—accepted that what had begun as measuring the worth of everyone around him by their usefulness in fulfilling his vengeful quest had resulted in his finding and responding to their worth as people, colleagues and finally friends. While she could find fault with his initial attitude towards the team, and specifically herself, where he had ended up served, as far as she was concerned, as absolution enough.

But it had not taken Jane long to discover that he could not be content with absolution alone. Their relationship going back to a more even footing with a few remaining rough patches, a less smooth version of what they had before left him annoyingly dissatisfied. For the first time in eight years, he found himself wanting more than he had, and his irritation left him privately chafing to the point of grinding his teeth. Luckily for him, between bio-rhythms and mind-over-matter and long years' experience at effortlessly manufacturing unmitigated bull, he was able to keep his desires as well as his frustrations hidden from them all.

"What's going on with you?" Lisbon's muffled voice floated to him, the question momentarily derailing his calm.

"Nothing's going on with me," he blustered, catching himself before he continued with a juvenile _"What's going on with __you__?"_ Instead he closed his eyes and inhaled briefly, making another start. "I think the case has us all at odds. No reason why I should be any different, given the circumstances."

She lifted her head wearily, leaning it against one raised palm, upper body still slumped forward.

"I don't mean that." She frowned in consideration. "Well, I guess I do. But not _just_ that. There's something up with you, and I want to know what it is."

_I have feelings for you, and I can't seem to wade through the psychological morass?_

_I've just been wondering why you never wear that red top anymore?_

_Remember when I said those things in the hospital that you've come to believe were spoken under the influence of very strong pain medication and later forgotten but every word of which I remember very clearly and would like to know your thoughts regarding?_

Discarding all of those for starters and wondering, not for the first time, at his overall ineptness at such things in her presence, he decided to take a bold step and wing it.

"Everything is different. My life is different. Well, except for this morning everything is different. But even that was different. I mean, the same but in a different way. Different is good, I guess. Right? Different can be good. Unless it's bad, a bad kind of different. Which is what this morning was. But beside something as astronomically unlikely . . ." He let his voice trail off and grimaced into his cold tea. Gad, he sounded like Rigsby.

"Jane." Her voice was weighted with fatigue, but he could still hear the amusement in it. So much for winging it. He would never wing again. He sighed heavily.

"Lisbon." He paused, still not knowing exactly what he was going to say and finally met her eyes. _So calm. So patient._ He realized he didn't have to know exactly the right thing to say, and she was willing to give him time. Not for the first time, those jade eyes and that damned way she had of sucking the truth out of him by just looking at him had the words tumbling out before he realized what he was saying.

"Sometimes I miss the way we were before."

Surprise sparked in her gaze, but it was quickly replaced by acceptance. She had a way of doing that too—accepting something like that, something that should have been huge without drawing it out or fussing over it. She just absorbed it without any sign of expectation.

"I know. Sometimes I miss it too." A sympathetic look passed between them. "But it's not so bad, is it? We're still friends, still working together."

"I hope you'll understand if I don't consider 'not so bad' to be particularly stellar."

She straightened a little more in her chair, lifting her head but still leaning her folded arms on the desk, looking more relaxed than weary.

"Jane," she said again, this time her voice warm with comfort. "We took a giant step back. But we're moving forward again. Maybe in a different direction—" He fought the impulse to throw his saucer across the room. "—but we'll be fine."

_Fine_ didn't sound anywhere close to where he was coming to suspect he wanted to be.

"As long as you don't do anything stupid."

Her eyes were laughing at him, and his narrowed in response.

"You're a real minx, you now that?"

"I guess I should take that as some kind of sexist compliment?"

"No. That would imply I've thought of other women the same way. You, my dear, are in a class all by yourself."

She sat up a little straighter, and he was pleased that she was fighting preening at his honest flattery. Marveling at this oasis they'd managed to make in the macabre horror fate and the morning had brought them, he sipped his tea and made a show of distaste.

"I'm going to make a fresh cup," he announced, rising from his seat. "Do you want anything?" he asked, hoping she would catch his intention to return and not throw up any blocks against it.

"No thanks," she answered, straightening and pulling the laptop back in place. "I'm good. I'll send Rigsby for some lunch in a bit."

He paused at the threshold and turned back just enough to look at her over his shoulder. "So . . .," he drawled and waited for her to look up at him. ". . . Not so bad?"

She grinned softly, bright and true, and answered quietly. "Not so bad."

Lisbon turned back to her computer and the case, and Jane headed to the break room, deciding on tea for himself and bottled water for her and that "not so bad" was a pretty good place to start.


	2. Far As the Curse Is Found

2. FAR AS THE CURSE IS FOUND  
><em>- "Joy to the World"<em>

"I can't stress enough, Agent Lisbon, the importance of solving this case, putting this matter to rest with as much haste as possible. The people of California were just starting to breathe easy, and here we are, back to the same horrendous nightmare."

Director Bertram sat on Lisbon's couch, legs crossed at the knees, hands in his lap, one palm nestled in the other. He was using his posturing-for-the-media voice, feigned put-upon patience with a slight whine. Lisbon always cringed inwardly when she heard it, and she had come to wonder if her occasional fanciful disappointment that he had not been Red John's mole made her a bad person.

"Sir, I assure you we're doing everything possible. We're waiting on the forensics and autopsy results, Cho and Rigsby are meeting the Carlisle's plane at the airport, Van Pelt's running the victim's records and e-mails, Tech's going through her cell phone and laptop. We canvassed the dorm residents yesterday, and Chelsea's boyfriend and best friend are coming in later this morning."

"I've had a word with the coroner and labs. I want this case given top priority. Everything else has been pushed to the back burner. Anything you need, just say the word."

Lisbon wasn't sure how she felt about that, torn as she was between appreciating the help and irritation at any case getting preferential treatment over another. She couldn't help thinking it would be a big help if he left her alone so she could get back to putting the case file together. Making an effort to pay attention, she came back to the director in mid-sentence.

". . . fortunate this isn't Red John but a mere copycat. Should be easier to catch."

She shuddered before humming uncomfortably in agreement, glad Jane wasn't in the room to hear what Bertram had just had the audacity to say. It was amazing sometimes how insensitive the publicly consummate politician could be. As she finished that thought, movement through the blinds caught her eye. Jane stood in the hallway outside the break room and a few steps toward her office, teacup and saucer in hand, dipping a teabag up and down, his eyes trained on her. She realized he was waiting for some kind of sign from her, any indication that she might need or want him to join the conversation. She gave the slightest shake of her head, glad Bertram was too caught up in his own droning to notice. Jane's hand stilled, the teabag suspended over the cup as he maintained eye contact with her, considering a course of action. When he turned and walked into the bullpen, she relaxed with relief that he at least respected her evaluation of her own limits and turned her attention back to the director, only to stiffen again in apprehension.

". . . all we had was Jane's word. Lucky for him, we found evidence that it was, indeed, Red John. Lucky for us as well. And his acquittal of course."

She caught both the insincerity and the uncertainty of his tone. She had always known that in spite of their close rate, even for the very difficult and very public cases, her unit didn't enjoy the complete confidence of the director, due in large part to his annoyance with Jane's manner as well as the consultant's refusal to toe the line of professionalism and propriety. Suddenly, the more rebellious side of her wished she hadn't been so quick to dismiss Jane's subtle indication of his desire to be of support, and her eyes drifted back almost wistfully to where he had been standing. A shift in the timbre of Bertram's voice made her aware that she should at least make a show of listening to what he was saying when the drift of his comments wrenched her full attention back to him.

". . . can't help thinking that it may be a good idea for this particular case to be handed off or at least shared with another unit. Extra hands and heads couldn't hurt. Plus, it would give you a break from the stress that must surely come in the wake of the Red John fiasco."

She had no doubt that the director would want Jane—and the rest of the team for that matter—as far away from the point position on the current case as possible, but she also knew firsthand what happened when the Red John investigation was handed off to another unit. And while she was absolutely certain this was a copycat, she wouldn't delude herself into thinking the counterfeit would suffer Jane's removal from the case any better than the original had. Near panicked at the thought, her eyes shot again to the space where Jane had stood, only to find him back in place, his gaze intent on her, his observational skills brought fully to bear. The sudden tensing of her posture as well as the agitation in her expression had him instantly and smoothly heading for and through her office door.

"Ah, Bertram. How are things up at the State building?" He leaned across the threshold, hand holding the door open behind him as if he didn't mean to settle into the room or leave its occupants as he'd found them. Not bothering to wait for an answer to his question, he turned his attention fully to Lisbon, leaving no doubt of his opinion of the director's worth in any further discussion. "Lisbon, your presence is requested in the bullpen. Van Pelt didn't want to interrupt, but I assured her you would want to have any and all information from the labs as it came in."

Lisbon rose from her chair fluidly, shooting her boss a look that said, "If you'll excuse me", and Bertram waved her away as if to say "By all means", not realizing until after Jane had escorted her out and closed the door behind them that he had been effectively and smoothly dismissed. Not caring for and completely unaccustomed to being a part of the nuts and bolts of an investigation, he decided to cut his losses and make a dignified retreat, assuaging any misgivings by assuring himself that he had stated his concerns and subtly made known his preferences. Hearing his footfall moving away behind her, Lisbon spoke to her consultant without turning to him.

"Are there actual reports from any of 'the labs'?"

"Meh. Somebody handed Grace a file folder just before I walked out. I thought it a logical assumption."

Not for the first time, Lisbon was at a loss as to what her appropriate reaction to his behavior should be. Several options came to mind, but she settled on sending him a combination of feigned glare and appreciative half-smile before walking across the bullpen and dropping squarely onto the middle cushion of his couch, hoping for a bit of peace before she had to face Chelsea Carlisle's grieving parents.

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"Had she spoken or written about any acquaintances, probably someone new? Mentioned anyone strange watching or following her?"

"No," Cynthia Carlisle had considered the question and responded with certainty. "There was no one." It was obvious Mrs. Carlisle was the heart of the family, keeping lines of communication open with daughter and son as well as between them and their father who now sat lost and listless at her side.

"She ever say anything to indicate she was uneasy or uncomfortable? With a person or in her surroundings?"

Lisbon already knew the answer to her questions, the same as she had received earlier from Chelsea's boyfriend and best girlfriend. The scant information CSU and the coroner had been able to come up with was enough to prove they would get no further in this investigation than they had on any Red John case. As a matter of fact, the reports had only confirmed what they had already known and suspected. The wound patterning was the same, there were no fingerprints or other clues left behind by the murderer, nothing that connected her to any of Red John's victims or—thankfully—to Jane.

"That's all for now, Cynthia," Lisbon softly ended the interview, her voice a study in calm and comfort if any of either were to be given or found. "If we think of anything more, we'll call you. It will be a day or two before we can release Chelsea. Until then, if you need anything, please don't hesitate to call. I'm sorry—," she swallowed against the sudden spasm in her throat, "—we're all very sorry for your loss."

Both parents nodded wordlessly and rose from the uncomfortable chairs in the bleak interrogation room, and Lisbon watched them go, escorted out by Cho. At the last moment, Jeff Carlisle turned back to look at Lisbon, something disturbingly familiar flaring hot and hard in his eyes.

"You'll find him. The man who did this. You'll find him and he'll pay for what he did to my little girl."

She felt Jane tense at her side and answered quickly before he could have the chance. It was easy enough—she'd given the answer hundreds of times. Something definite but noncommittal, a truth but not a promise. But something in her brain as well as her character roiled against the pat and professional response.

"We will."

He accepted her answer and reaching out, rubbed his hand down his wife's back and drew her to him to place a kiss on her bent head before walking out and down the hall. Cho hesitated, still holding the door, gave his boss a hard look, whether of challenge or agreement she couldn't tell, then turned to follow the bereaved parents.

"You sound certain." Jane's voice was low, balanced on a razor's edge of control.

"I don't know why I said that," her voice was a shaking whisper.

"Don't you?" he asked her softly.

"I have to . . . We've got to . . ."

She suddenly pushed herself away from the table, chair grinding against the cold hard floor, and strode to the mirror. Looking into his eyes in the deceptively reflecting glass, she made her confession.

"I can't do this again. Living from one murder to the next. Giving the same standard answers. Waiting—hoping that the sadistic son-of-a-bitch we're chasing makes a mistake and just _swallowing_ it when he doesn't and all we can do is promise ourselves and the victim's family we'll get him the next time. I _won't _do it again."

Her voice had become stronger in spite of the continued shaking until the last words came out harsh and defiant. Her eyes never left his as he crossed the distance between them to stand just behind her and put his right hand on her shoulder. He opened his mouth to speak, but before the words came, his eyes shifted quickly to the glass and back. Uncertain of how alone they actually were and knowing there was nothing he could say that he would be willing for anyone else to hear, his hand squeezed through the oxford cloth of her button down and into her soft flesh. Her head dipped toward his hand, the movement so quick and minute as to be nearly indiscernible, before she turned and left the room, knowing he would know better than to follow. That brief allowance, the stolen permission, was all she could give him in this moment.

Hands stuffed into her front trouser pockets and face crumpled into a hurt frown, she strode to her office glad she didn't encounter anyone else along the way. She only wanted the safety and shelter of the steel and glass enclosure, another symbol of her authority, her control, surrounding her. Once inside the door, she circled the room, closing the blinds in the same pattern as Jane had maneuvered them the day before. Returning to the door, she leaned back against the frame, nearly ashamed at the comfort she still took in the gesture. Her chest rose in deep inhalation, and she chastised herself for the emotionality that had led to her breath being stolen away over the care he seemed to be taking with her, both in yesterday's despairing aftermath and the morning's visit from Bertram, all the while minding his distance. Only Jane could achieve such balance and at the same time cause such upheaval.

She pushed off the metal frame even as she threw off foolish thinking and moved to her desk and sat in front of her laptop. Three keystrokes in, and her thoughts were back to the same subject. She often remembered Jane's words as he lay in the hospital bed after his fall on Thanksgiving Day, his system flooded with pain meds. She had tried to resist the pull of that particular memory but simply couldn't help herself.

"_You know, in many ancient cultures, when one person saves another person's life, the sav-ee belongs to the sav-er until death or the debt is repaid."_

She hoped the way he was acting wasn't just his skewed version of paying a debt. He owed her much, and she knew he was aware. While she didn't know exactly what was going on with him, and frightening as her farthest suspicions might be, she knew she couldn't bear it if that's all there was to it.

"_Only yours,"_ he had whispered.

"_Guess I'm owned."_ He had almost seemed happy about it.

She groaned and covered her face with her hands then dragged them down until her fingertips rested across her bottom lip and jaw. Memories of other holidays, other times, both planned and impromptu, flooded her thoughts. Jane's comforting presence on a lonely Christmas Eve, the thrill of fireworks, shared chocolates and champagne and couch (as well as his darkest secret), a clandestine getaway, his care for her hurts, dancing in his arms, his hands on her, his face in her hair . . .

She inhaled deep again, breath stolen once more, and felt her lips bow and brow crease in a frown. This had to stop. She was no teenaged school girl with a secret crush. Oh, god, she hoped it was secret, whatever it was. Taken as a whole, Jane's actions during their "next times" certainly evidenced the things he had said, even if heavily medicated during the time, might have some truth to them. Besides, drugs like that were more likely to break down the defenses that enabled people to lie. She would get a more accurate picture if she didn't isolate the "next times" but instead took into account Jane's behavior on the whole of their acquaintance.

He had lied to her, used her, never shown her any more attention than any other woman in his sphere. She sighed in defeat. Even _she_ had to admit that wasn't completely true. He had baited her, teased her, taunted her nearly to the point of torment, argued with her, called her bluffs, tried to protect her—was adamant about protecting her—in his own warped way, and at times there was something so close to outright possessiveness . . .

She didn't even try to wipe away the small smile that she realized had come to play at her lips or question why she was now chewing on the nails of her little fingers. All she could do was lower her hands to clasp them in her lap and shake her head at herself. Her mind was firmly on one track now, and she knew any attempt to derail it would be futile. Another flood of memories washed over her that had nothing to do with "next times" but rather _all_ of their times together. Hundreds of favorite pastries and special coffees, dozens of inside jokes, intimate moments of conversation and shared looks in a sea of people, the first time she noticed she was number one on his speed dial, his pleasure at her agreement to ride in a car she claimed not to like in the care of driving she claimed not to trust, and countless mindless touches and soft smiles and whispered words . . .

She could think about it all she wanted, secure and accepting that regulations would take care of keeping it in bounds. Again, whatever _it_ was. And it had to stay in bounds. Nothing could happen on that front. It would be disastrous—for both of them. Still, the idea that nothing could come of it . . .

She had a case to solve. A murderer to catch. A serial killer in the mold of Red John. And she had promised that she _would_ catch him. If it took her another seven plus years, _whatever_ it took. She had gone the distance before, and she would again. After all, she came from a long line of women who did what needed to be done. And Jane's focus would be different this time. _He_ would be different. And together, all of them together, they would catch this damned copycat.

She only hoped she wouldn't have to eat her words.


	3. Yet With the Woes of Sin and Strife

3. YET WITH THE WOES OF SIN AND STRIFE  
><em>- "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear"<em>

Two days since the last victim. Red John's killings had never fallen so close together. Jane had suspected that he chose his victims with great care, perhaps to the point of vetting them, a drawn out auditioning process. The copycat either had fewer criteria to meet or was bent toward the impetuous. Jane knew it must be the former. He had been too careful, too precise and too meticulous, leaving no clue behind despite the chaos of the scene. He knew it would be the same this time. Everything the same. Mutilated corpse, staring eyes, bloody bed and linens and floor, gawking neighbors, tearful family, fruitless reports. Jane sighed wearily, and he hoped the woman in the driver's seat would not know it was in part over the _sameness_ of it all.

Lisbon suddenly tensed, the smallest tightening of her fingers on the wheel and the addition of a fraction of an inch between her already stiffened back and the back of the seat giving her away, and he feared she _did_ know. But in the next second, her fingers flexed and curled around the steering wheel again, and he knew he hadn't been found out. The sound of his frustration had only added to the crackle of tension in the air.

He had started out the three-hour drive to the Monterey campus of CalState wondering how they would spend the time, had tried conversation—they both had. No matter how bad things had been in the past, they had always been able to talk, even if the conversation itself was insipid and mundane. But eventually words had failed them, and Jane had settled in and let shared silence and concerns that he knew must also be shared be enough. Now, about an hour into the drive, something crossed his mind, a wondering that he had never labored with, and he turned to ask Lisbon about it, knowing she would have considered the matter at length.

"How do you think the others are doing?"

Immediately her hands relaxed on the wheel, and she turned a soft glance to him.

"As well as we are, I guess. They're probably angry and frustrated. Rigsby's shook up and Cho's ready to throttle somebody—pity the frat-type that gets on his bad side today—and Grace is . . ."

"How _is_ Grace?"

She chanced another fleeting look at him before turning back to concentrate on the road, and it was her turn to sigh. "I wish I knew."

"She was angry at the scene the other day." His eyes rounded. "_Really_ angry. But not about what we found, I think."

"She didn't even seem surprised." It was a relief to give voice to it. "Maybe it's because of what happened with O'Laughlin? Thinking it was all over and this stirred it all up again?" She addressed them as questions, hoping he might have insight and be willing to share.

He looked down at his folded hands. "Maybe."

After a few seconds of thought, he raised his eyes to look out his window, squinting into the cool sunlight. "It seems like something else. She's taken a dark turn since she killed him—" Lisbon winced at his phrasing. "—but there's been something else lately. Not just something she's trying to process or get past. Something she's harboring."

Concern furrowed her brow. As far as she knew, harboring was never a good thing.

"Doesn't necessarily mean it's bad," he muttered still looking out the window. Lisbon turned to look at the back of his head and wondered whose thought process he was addressing.

"To harbor something," he said, suddenly fully engaged and turning to look at her, knowing he'd caught the tail end of her wondering. "She could be contemplating something with the case or with the connection to Red John. I'm sure she realizes, as we all do, that this has something to do with me. It's retribution. We just don't know why he, whoever he is, isn't coming directly after me and why he's going after these women. What's his point? What's he trying to say?"

"I'm pretty sure he's trying to say he's pissed that you offed his idol."

He smiled at her dryness. "Yes, Lisbon. That's a given. But is there something else? Something more symbolic. Something . . . artistic."

She grimaced and rolled her eyes at him, and he spied something in the glint there.

"Penny for your thoughts," he said, a hint of a smile and a jab of his index finger to the air between them. Locking her eyes on the highway ahead, she pinched her lips together and shook her head quickly like a child refusing a bite of spinach. "A dollar then." Her response was the same. His smile broadened, and this time his fingertip made contact with her forearm. "Twenty dollars, Agent Lisbon. I'll give you the paper equivalent of _two thousand pennies_ if you will tell me what was behind that little look just then."

When she held out her hand and wriggled her fingers at him, he fished a twenty out of his vest pocket as if he had known he would have some use for it and needed easy access. When she only offered him a scowl, his impatience got the better of him. "Well?" He leaned toward her to catch her secret.

"I was just wondering why you can't be like normal people."

His smile faded, and she knew she had disappointed rather than hurt him. But when his grin suddenly bloomed, closed-mouthed and ear to ear, she almost wished she could give the money back.

"What?" she leaned away from him and asked suspiciously.

He shook his head, grin still in place. "Nothing." He continued to lean into her space for just a moment more, just long enough for her to visibly squirm then sat back and snuggled into his seat, hummed in satisfaction, closed his eyes and dozed.

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Sometime later he was awakened by the buzzing of Lisbon's cell. Taking in his surroundings, he could tell they were closer to the ocean, and quite a bit further south than when he had last had his eyes open.

Cal State Monterey was actually in the town of Seaside, and Seaside was more than a stone's throw from the beach. Still, Jane caught glimpses of the water between houses and trees lining the route, and the view finally opened, wide and blue-gray-green before they turned in at the campus gates. Lisbon mumbled into her phone and snapped it shut. The tension was back, and he wondered how long she had been bent to the steering wheel like that. He shouldn't have dropped off. It was foolhardy to think that just because he'd managed to lighten the atmosphere momentarily the stress would have been kept at bay. Lisbon took a lot of looking after, and he would need to stay vigilant.

"That was Wainwright," she said breaking the silence. "The victim's name is Jessica Murphy, a second year Health and Human Services major. She was planning on a career in Social Work."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "That's a lot of information being phoned back to Sacramento."

"He's not there," she answered uneasily. "Apparently, he headed for Seaside on his own once he called me. He's standing outside the dorm . . ."

Her discomfort was putting him on edge. "Just say it, Lisbon."

"Her family lives in Monterey. The university administration called there after they contacted the police."

Jane groaned inwardly before saying what she didn't want to voice. "They're demanding to see the scene."

"Yes." The word came out on a whoosh, and she deflated in her seat. This was one more thing they didn't need.

"Wainwright knows what to do," Jane assured her. "This isn't part of your job—," he raised his palm toward her to cut off her indignant response. "—not when he's there. This is his responsibility, Lisbon, let him handle it. We've got enough on our plate."

She scowled, but settled back into her seat, surprised that some of the weight dropped away at his words.

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They could hear the shouting before the elevator was halfway up to the fourth floor. The doors opened, and Agent Luther Wainwright was barely holding his own against a thin man, red-faced and howling down the hall toward a door at the opposite end that stood slightly ajar, a county sheriff's deputy guarding it, his thumb tucked into his gun belt.

Tom Murphy's eyes were a bleary red, and his whole body shook with anger and indignation.

"Let me go, damn it! She's my daughter! I've got the right! Let me go!"

"Mr. Murphy, please. Try and understand. We've got to clear the scene first. You can't just go in and—"

Lisbon stepped out of the elevator immediately upon the doors opening, her hand stretched out to take hold of Murphy's arm. She knew in an instant what had happened. Wainwright would have started with sense and sympathy, the epitome of tact and understanding. But that was no match for a grieving father left with nothing to give on his daughter's behalf but his rage. She had more experience with this sort of thing, and she knew her young boss would be grateful for her to step in.

Before she could make contact, however, she felt a gentle pressure on her shoulder. As she turned a questioning look to Jane, he solemnly shook his head at her then pointed with his other hand to his own chest. Taking her stillness as permission, he slid his hand down her still outstretched arm, squeezed her hand in reassurance and crossed the gap between her fingertips and Murphy's upper arm.

"You don't want to go in there."

The unexpected touch and sound coming from so close behind him had Murphy wheeling on him despite the quiet of it.

"What do you mean I don't want to go? She's my daughter!" he bellowed.

"Trust me." Jane's voice was even quieter in answer. "I found my daughter much the same way. You'll never get that out of your head."

Murphy stilled at that. His eyes filled with tears, and his bottom lip quivered pitiably. "But . . ."

"I know," Jane said, his voice warm with sympathy. "You want to see her. And you will. But not now. Not like this. No one who's ever cared for you—no one who's ever cared for _her_ would want you to see this."

Jane tilted his head and raised his eyebrows at the man, waiting for a sign that he understood. After a long moment, Tom Murphy nodded brokenly and stepped into the waiting elevator, and Jane motioned for the deputy to escort him down.

He looked to his colleagues and turned sheepish at their stares, embarrassed at exposing himself in such a way, his left hand rising to slide uncomfortably up and down his side. Lisbon took his motioning with his right hand, palm side up, as a signal to lead them down the hall to Jessica Murphy's dorm room.

The room itself was messy—clothes, books, shoes (including boots, runners, moccasins and cleats) lay strewn across the floor. Jackets, three or four at least, heaped over the back of the desk chair. A Pandora playlist crooned softly, musical white noise to ease the girl's sleep no doubt. Conversely, her desktop was an organized, tidy relief against the clutter. The top shelf of the desk hutch was lined with softball trophies. The rest of the team had joined them, and Cho had moved to Lisbon's side where she stood in the room's center, both of them taking in the scene. Their quiet conversation became part of Jane's observations.

"This seem off to you?" Lisbon asked. "A little too . . ."

"Neat," Cho finished, having picked up on the same thing.

"Yeah," she answered.

And it was true. Jessica Murphy's room was filled with the clutter of her life, but the part of it that was germane to the crime had an oddly untouched feeling. Where Chelsea Carlisle's dorm room had underlying everyday clutter, there had been things knocked aside and overturned, not from struggle, but as a further desecration of her space after the final desecrating of her body. In contrast, Jessica's killer had seemed unwilling, apart from the heinous murder itself, to commit any intrusion. Although he hadn't yet studied the body, he had taken in with a glance the subtle differences there as well. He knew the wound patterning would be the same, but there was a fineness to the execution unlike the precise but brutal hacking of the previous killing.

Suddenly, the bits and pieces of the current scene pressed in on his consciousness with selective clarity, and once again Jane was hit with the feeling that something beyond the obvious was terribly wrong. This all meant something. The CD cases tossed about, the picture of a girl with her dog, this book, those cleats, all of it was trying to tell him something, trying to let in whatever was teasing at the fringes of his brain. His eyes kept moving around the room, even as he moved bodily until finally he was standing next to the bed. As his gaze passed over the chest of drawers on the opposite side of the room, something gold caught the light and glinted briefly. His line of sight drifted to the dead girl's bed, from her blessedly pristine toenails, up her softball jersey-clad body, coming to rest on her eyes. Without thinking, he extended his hand and touched her, applying just enough pressure with his thumb and middle finger to gently force her eyelids shut.

"Jane!"

Lisbon's snapped whisper brought him out of what felt like a trance, and he realized he'd committed a forensic taboo. He looked at her to apologize, Van Pelt's voice cutting him off.

"It's okay, Boss. I got the shot already."

Jane looked to her in gratitude, nonplussed to find her staring at him, unblinking. She stood across the room, the camera resting in her upturned palm. One dark auburn eyebrow arched, and under her calculating gaze, he turned suddenly uncertain again, left hand returning to the earlier motion of rubbing up and down his side. Lisbon, her eyes focused on Jane and missing Van Pelt's continued evaluation of him, recognized his rhythmic motion for what it was: a primitive gesture of self-comfort, something his subconscious had learned in early childhood or in the hospital after his family's death. Whatever the origins or the discomfort it produced in her when it overtook him, his increased agitation was proof that what composure Jane had possessed earlier with Tom Murphy in the hallway had deserted him now. She took him gently by the elbow and led him out of the room. He had been more open in the last few months, more honest, but in spite of that and even his earlier bout of vulnerability, she doubted if she asked now what was going on in his head he would be honest with her. For that reason, she approached him with her best guess.

"Jane," she began softly, cajoling him, "I know you identified with her father, that maybe you think you owed him something, trying to show her some respect or kindness, but—"

He was looking at her like she'd grown another head.

"Jane? What is it? What's wrong?"

"I . . . I'm not sure. I don't know." She was more startled by that answer than she would have been if he had told her outright. Almost as startled as she was when she had seen him touch the body. He'd never done so before, more prone to keep his hands jammed in his coat pockets and direct someone else to check the hand or mouth for something held or inserted there.

"Do you need to leave? Cho or Rigsby can take you—"

"No. No, Lisbon. Don't worry." Both hands were now firmly clenched into fists and dug into his pockets. "I'm fine."

"You want to go back in?"

"No," he answered a little too quickly before centering himself. "No," he repeated, more calmly this time. "I've seen everything there is for me to see."

She hovered, fingertips now massaging softly against the inside of his elbow.

"I'm all right," he told her, nodding to himself as if agreeing with an inner voice. "You go back in. Finish up. I'll just wait out here."

"Everything okay?" They both turned at Wainwright's concerned question and answered in the affirmative in muttered unison. Lisbon gave Jane's elbow one final squeeze and resisted the impulse to slide her arm around his waist, instead following their boss back into Jessica's room to finish up with the team and give the CSU's the go-ahead.

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The day was nearly ended, a futile chase in Jane's thinking. Wainwright had left them to it and headed back to Sacramento, and Lisbon was angry with him. He should've known better. She had spent the day growing more and more keyed up, asking him no less than half a dozen times what the hell was wrong with him—four of those when his attention had drifted during interviews. Then he had made a stupid joke, and she had stomped away from him, fuming. He hadn't seen her, hadn't heard from her in over an hour, and he sat on his motel bed staring at the wall in the gathering dark, waiting.

He wasn't disappointed. The knock on his door was strong and confident but most definitely feminine. He was just wondering how much longer it would be before her concern and curiosity got the better of her irritation and was biting his tongue to keep from saying something glib to that affect when he opened the door and found himself eye-to-eye with Van Pelt.

"We need to talk," she said walking past him without permission or invitation. Closing the door more out of reflex than a desire to converse with privacy, he turned to ask about what, only to be cut off by the impatient, curt wave of Grace's hand.

"You saw something, thought something, and you're keeping it to yourself, waiting to see if it pans out or mulling it over or something. I need to know what it is."

"Grace, I—"

She broke in to head off what she saw as an oncoming stall tactic.

"Cut it, Jane. I saw your reaction to the room, to Jessica's body—" she grimaced, "—its condition. Something went through your mind. You can't keep anything secret now. You know what's at stake."

He had no idea what she was getting at, but that irritation was back, scritching at the back of his brain again. He dropped to the edge of the bed, folding his hands together and shaking his head, searching, trying to reach for it. All he could do was look up at her helplessly.

"I don't know, Grace. I know there's something there, something he's after or something he's trying to tell me, but I just can't grasp what or why—"

She was kneeling before him instantly, one hand squeezing his knee nearly to the point of discomfort.

"You can't grasp _why_?" she asked incredulously.

"I know he's trying to punish me for killing Red John, but why not just come after me? Why not just get it over with?"

Her grip tightened further as her eyes moved back and forth searching his impatiently then relaxed when she found no guile there, though her overall tension didn't abate.

"Surely you didn't think it would end?" she asked. "Did you think because Red John took everything you had that he wouldn't keep taking? That just because you thought you had nothing left he wouldn't find _something_? Something else to hurt you with? Or that just because he was gone there wouldn't be others who would want to cause you pain just as badly? That they wouldn't know, that they wouldn't have seen what he saw?"

His throat was suddenly dry, and his voice rasped in the roughness. "What, Grace? What did he see?"

She moved her hand from his knee to cover his hands where they were still clasped. "That you'd come back to life again. That you . . . and Lisbon . . .," she finished the thought with a shrug.

He would have withdrawn his hand from hers if he could, but he was so stunned at her words—and so terribly frightened that it had been obvious to anyone else, sure as he was that he'd kept it hidden, even refusing to think on it within his own mind. Of course Grace was right. He had never been meant to go on living in the real sense of the word, had never been meant to have love or anything else good in life again. With Red John dead, it would have been safe for him to pursue his own happiness. But Red John's friend, follower, or whatever couldn't allow it, and so they had stepped into the killer's place with their own agenda, using these girls to taunt him and to make him pay not only for killing Red John but for changing the play. They wanted him to know they still had control. It was the same game, but the rules had changed, and he wasn't sure of the objective anymore.

He unclasped his hands and rotated them so they both took hold of Grace's. Though she wouldn't ask him outright and would never expect a forthright answer if she did, the look in his eyes was as good as a spoken confession, and some little part of her that she thought had died with her treacherous lover thrilled at the prospect. Still, she didn't waver from the more serious matter at hand.

"Figure it out, Jane. And quick. I don't think we've got much time."


	4. From Our Sins and Fears Release Us

4. FROM OUR SINS AND FEARS RELEASE US  
><em>- "Come Thou Long-Expected Jesus"<em>

There hadn't been much to do the next morning, so they headed back to Sacramento, discussing the case by speaker phone. Lisbon was still angry, and she had opted to travel with Van Pelt, leaving Jane to follow with Cho and Rigsby. He knew it was in part because she worried over Grace's altered manner, since O'Laughlin as well as the murder of Chelsea Carlisle. But the sound of her voice, tinny and distant over the speaker, was a reminder that she mostly hadn't wanted to be in close proximity to _him_. And that knowledge had him growing edgier by the mile.

Following his visit from Grace, between the cryptic and revealing nature of the conversation, he had been less prone to sleep than usual, which only fueled his tension. He knew that both Rigsby and Cho must know as much as Grace about his feelings for Lisbon, knew that Cho had probably been the one to point them out. Jane was well aware that Cho's disinterest in other people's business only went as far as Rigsby's love life and attendant mooning. Beyond that, the senior agent's curiosity rivaled any small-town gossip's. Jane himself was a very curious person, always needing to know what was going on with other people, what was hidden in small gestures, passing words and fleeting glances. But he didn't know how he felt about being on the other end of it. Now he knew that they knew, and he had the feeling they knew that he knew that they knew, and it was obvious none of them wanted to be the one to bring it up. The ride was uncomfortable to say the least, and once back at the CBI all three men tumbled out of the car, glad to escape its confines and Jane's unrest. He made to catch up with Lisbon, but as if knowing his intention she lengthened her strides and he was again taunted with the sight of her walking away from him.

Once inside, he knew better than to force his company on her and instead lay on the brown couch, pondering their most recent victim. Jessica Murphy was at CalState Monterey on a softball scholarship. Grace had said her mother was out of the picture and the father, a troubled man who had done two stints in an area rehab, had barely been able to maintain some semblance of a home life for his two daughters, one of them still in high school. Like Chelsea Carlisle, Jessica had been a good student and friend. While the actual _method_ of the murder was like Red John, aside from his preferences of females within a certain age range, Jane's nemesis had never killed two victims so close together in time or commonalities.

Jane couldn't come up with anything beyond that, and so he returned to the scene itself. When he closed his eyes he could still see the room as it had been. The mess, he knew would have only appeared as such to anyone other than the girl who'd created it, her mind having its own sense of order, as evidenced by the very organized desk space. He saw it all as he had seen it the day before, CD cases, books, clothes, shoes and a glint of something catching a spark of light . . . He should have looked at that, and would have if Lisbon hadn't dragged him from the room. He frowned to himself. _Or would he?_ Something happened when he really looked at Jessica. He had seen the girl and not just the victim. Her pose still very much as if she were sleeping, carefree and untouched by concerns of school or home, and her eyes . . . He hadn't been able to let her eyes stay like that. He felt the sensation of her skin against his thumb and fingertip again, the coldness, the finality. His own eyes opened, and he stretched them against the disturbing mental picture and breathed deep. He needed tea. And he needed to make things right with Lisbon. He was doing his best to not let the knowledge that these young women, that _more_ women were dying because of him overwhelm him. The distance between him and the person he valued most in the world—had come to need more than anything else—was only exacerbating his difficulty in handling the situation and processing his thoughts and feelings.

As if in answer to his thinking, he heard her footsteps approaching the bullpen. Hoping this was his chance or that she had finally processed her own anger, he swung his legs over the side of the couch and stood to meet her. But she wasn't coming to him. Her gaze swept across him and circled to include the other three team members. Her face was ashen and her voice trembled.

"We've got another body. This one's at the Hayward campus. Locals just called it in. We're up again."

They all sat and stood in their respective places, stunned out of movement or response.

"Right now," she urged more strongly and turned to leave the room. Jane watched her go, heading upstairs, undoubtedly to report to Wainwright. The others stood slowly, collecting jackets from the back of their chairs and weapons from desk drawers, checking ammunition out of habit though the activities of the day would surely include no gunfire.

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Jane had been glad to hear Lisbon's taut "Jane, with me" tossed over her shoulder, but any hope he had for clearing the air had been dashed when she had announced Wainwright would be accompanying them. Jane had known before they even reached the parking lot in which car Luther would be riding. Relegated to the back seat and exposed to their inane if sparse chatter on protocol and crime theory, Jane was beside himself by the end of the near two-hour ride.

The vehicles pulled into the diagonal spaces and in perfect synchronization, the doors opened, agents and consultant stepping out to survey the grounds before they made the long walk to the dorm entrance.

And all at once Jane couldn't take it anymore. Lisbon had been showing him her back for nearly twenty-four hours now. He'd had no rest or respite. Women were dying and while it wasn't strictly his fault it was on his account. He felt himself floundering and wondered when she had become more than a pleasant diversion, more than a good friend, more than an emotional entanglement and had turned into something he needed so much that he couldn't think straight or breathe deep or even doze in the car if there was anything separating them. Of one thing he was certain in this instant: he could not face what lay beyond those doors if he had to do it alone.

Quickening his pace, he strode past her entourage and slid his right hand into the thin strip of space between her right arm and Wainwright's left, curling his fingers over the inside of her elbow. She stopped instantly as Jane took one more step forward, bringing her back squarely against his front, causing her superior to jerk to a halt next to her. Lisbon's eyes darted to Jane's hand then moved slowly up and over her shoulder to meet his, transforming to a glare as they ascended. But she drew a sharp breath at the darkness of his gaze and willed herself not to flinch at the tightening of his grip.

They all stood in uncertain tableau, Jane and Lisbon at the center, the others wondering just what their part should be in what was about to happen. Jane's eyes never left hers.

"We'll be in in a minute." Jane's steely tone was enough to send them on, stripping away any question as to whether they should remain, and Lisbon saw any hope of aid disappear as they crossed the threshold into the dorm.

"Jane, I need to be inside." She wrenched her arm free and stepped away from him, wishing there hadn't been that faint note of pleading in her voice.

"I need you out here."

Her breath failed her at his words, and she knew they had to have it out, even on this sidewalk cutting across a lawn littered with meandering curiosity seekers. Professional calm reasserted itself, and she took a moment to collect herself. Jane wasn't willing to give her that moment, however, and he reached out with his right hand again, this time taking hold of her left upper arm, turning her to face him as he stepped nearer.

"What's going on Lisbon? I know this isn't over some thoughtless, stupid joke. That was the matchlight, but something else is eating you up, and I want to know what it is, and you'll tell me. Now."

"Jane, there isn't time—"

"Lisbon—," he broke off with a sigh and closed his eyes, tilting his head to the side as if listening to something only he could hear or searching out some troubling thought. His brow furrowed, and she caught herself, clenching her free hand to keep it from lifting to his face, the desire to smooth his brow so palpable she could feel it in her throat. She didn't know if it made things better or worse when his grip loosened just enough to feel good, warm and soft through her sleeve, his hand now stroking up and down along the back of her upper arm. All coherent thought on the matter fled when he leaned his head forward and to the side, his cheek nearly touching hers, his warm breath stirring her hair and grazing her ear.

"Please, Lisbon. Just tell me. I need to fix this, and I don't feel like guessing."

She bit back the urge to laugh in spite of how angry she was and nearly teased him about finally knowing how uncomfortable it was on the other end of that game. But this wasn't a game. Three young women were dead, and she'd had more than the usual uneasy feeling. She needed him, and it was as if he wasn't there, and she didn't like suspecting she knew the reason why.

"You've been off . . . since Chelsea Carlisle. Your focus is somewhere else, and you're not paying attention, and you keep talking about the art and the game and you made that stupid joke, and maybe this isn't Red John and maybe your interest isn't so vested anymore and you've already gotten what you wanted and you're just not—"

She hadn't heard him saying her name trying to stop the diatribe once he'd realized what she was thinking. How could she think that? He finally shouted her name and took firm hold on her with both hands to give her a good shake. Realizing the attention they were drawing, he dropped one hand and drew her off the path and over into a line of shrubbery away from most of the prying eyes. He lowered his voice as well as his head so he could look at her directly.

"How could you even begin to think that? About me, of all people? You think I don't know these girls are dying because of me?" He shook off her eagerness to tell him not to blame himself. "I know it's not my fault. I'm done with that part of it. But this killer thinks I owe something, and he's collecting it in their blood. Don't think for a minute I don't feel that Lisbon. It would be all I could feel, would suffocate me if I let it. It's just—just got me so unsettled, and there's something . . ."

His eyes drifted away even as his thoughts seemed to, and she needed him on track. "You said that before. Something more to it. What is it Jane?"

"I can't tell you—"

"But you could tell Grace?"

His eyes shot to hers, and he could see the hurt. Not jealousy—there would be no cause for it and Lisbon would know that. She must have seen Grace leaving his motel room, but Lisbon would not draw the typical conclusion even at that. If she thought he might have been on to something and told Grace instead of her, he knew in Lisbon's mind that would be nearly the greatest infidelity.

"No," he gave into the soft, slightly teasing smile that tugged at his lips. "I mean I can't say, I don't know. It's like fragments in my mind that won't come together. I would never talk to Grace over you. No one—I would always come to you first."

She relaxed so that she felt herself sway toward him.

"And I'm sorry about making a joke and anything else I did to sound like I didn't care about this case. I do, Lisbon. When I saw Jessica—"

A terrible unease overtook him, and his gaze drifted away from her and toward the building doors.

"Jane?" Her hands raised to his chest and fingers curled around his lapels as if she would ground him to her. "Jane, what is it?"

"Something . . .," His eyes came back to hers, piercing in their clarity. "We need to go in."

She nodded and stepped past him heading back toward the walk, glad for the hand that had slid down to grasp her forearm. They were together, in step, reconnected. As they walked through the doors and headed up the stairs, Jane let his hand drop for appearance's sake alone, glad he could still feel the warmth, inside and out.

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Monica Walsh's room was cold. Campus security had left everything the way they had found it after getting the call from the RA. One of the dead girl's friends had come by to check on her after she'd missed a late morning class. She could hear music playing through the door, and when no answer came to her knock, she tried the doorknob and felt it yield. The screaming had brought other residents as well as the RA running.

The window was open, apparently had been all night and morning, whether left so by the victim or her murderer was as yet unknown. The night breeze had wafted in from over the bay, bringing cool air and dampness, and there was a settled chill in the room.

This scene was very much like the others—murdered coed, controlled chaos of the room. A fabric-covered message board hung on the wall over the desk, notes and reminders tucked on one side, first-place ribbons and medals pinned and overlapping on the other. Jane was hesitant to look at the dead girl herself, remembering well what had happened the last time. His eyes took in the contents of the room, boots again and cleats too, though of a different style. There were no photographs of home or family this time, nothing to give a hint of life before or outside of college, and Jane wondered how much he should read into the lack. His eyes moved to the chest of drawers, and he was unaccountably relieved when nothing there caught his attention. After several minutes, unable to put it off any longer, he moved to Monica Walsh's bedside. Her hair was matted with blood. Red spatters across her face, uneven gashes on her arms and even across her chest evidenced a violent end, and judging by the contorted death mask alone, the last minutes had been anything but peaceful. Her back was still slightly arched away from the mattress in what was left of dying spasms, one hand was twisted in the bed linens, the other clinched into a tight fist on the pillow alongside her head. The others had already taken in the sight, studied and photographed her positioning and pose, then turned away, unable to look on her any longer than absolutely necessary. Even Cho was unsettled.

"Rigsby, see if you can get the RA back up here, security, another resident, anybody who could answer a few questions beyond her name."

Rigsby responded immediately to his boss's ragged command, glad to get out, only if for a few minutes. This dorm room was smaller than the others had been, and there were too many people, even the open window not enough to ease the claustrophobic feel of the space.

As the others were trying to look anywhere else but at the victim, Jane now couldn't draw his eyes away. He was so quiet, so steady in his observing, that Lisbon turned to watch him, concerned he might be going into that eerie trance-like state that had preceded his touching and closing Jessica Murphy's eyes. He appeared calm until his eyes seemed to "meet" Monica's.

Green. They were green beneath the death-glazed gray. Just like Jessica Murphy's had been. And Chelsea Carlisle's. He felt a shift in the room and knew Rigsby was back and had brought someone with him. He withdrew one hand from a pocket to point across the room at the message board, his eyes never leaving Monica's.

"The ribbons on the board. What are those for?" he asked, his voice almost sing-song, as if the answer would be of no real consequence.

"Track," came a voice from the door, flat and emotionless. _Good. No tears_. "She held the state record for women's 100 meters."

"And Ms. Walsh's major?"

"Criminal justice."

One more thing he needed. That clenched fist. Out of place. Unnatural.

"Uh . . . her fist. Is there something there?"

Lisbon moved to check, but Jane extended his arm, barring her. His eyes left the victim's and raised to Wainwright, who snapped to action, took the girl's hand in his own latex-gloved one and gingerly as possible pried her fingers open.

A cross necklace, silver and blood smeared, lay tangled in her hand. The implications as to its presence there were lost on no one. She would not have been holding it in her sleep, probably took it off the last thing each night and placed it in the small heart-shaped plate on her nightstand. So it had to have been handed to her in the seconds before her death. Her killer had, for some reason, recognized her need for consolation or religious fulfillment in her final moments and after dealing her a tormenting, horrific death had allowed her this small concession of pity. In her death throes she had clutched the cross, fisting it in a last comforting grasp. Wainwright tilted her hand, and the weak light from the window caught on a clean, shining fragment of it. Jane saw again the glint of light on gold across Jessica Murphy's room.

"Lisbon, where did you go to college?"

She swallowed hard, not liking the direction she inferred his thoughts were taking.

"CalState. San Francisco."

He turned to look at her, and though she would rather have looked away than see what she knew would be in his expression, she couldn't. It would have been like leaving him alone in it.

"He's killing you."

She swallowed hard again and started to stammer out an argument.

"No. It's you. Chelsea Carlisle was from a solid, loving Midwestern family, complete with little brother and dog. She was an over achiever, straight A student, natural leader. It's what your life would have been like if nothing had happened to your mother. Jessica Murphy's mother was—what did you say, Grace? 'Out of the picture'?"

"Dead. Cancer when Jessica was thirteen," she answered in response to his now terse tone.

"And her father was a substance abuser, seemed like he had a lot to make up for and had run out of time, might have abused her. And this girl," he pointed at Monica. "What do we know about her home life?"

"Parents both died when she was a teen. She lived in a foster home after that," came the voice from the doorway again.

"Any other family?"

"Not that she every talked about. She was alone as far as I know."

"He was killing them as if he were telling your life story. Killing his way to you."

She shook her head even though she could see the truth in it. Wanting to circumvent the inevitable questioning and discourse, he raised his eyes to Luther again.

"You know I'm right. The simplest answer is usually the right answer. And this was simple all along. I just had to admit . . . that it meant—"

Wainwright looked at him round eyed for a moment then nodded before looking down uncomfortably and excusing himself from the room. Jane's eyes followed him then glided back to Lisbon's upturned face.

"So, what do we do now?" she asked him.

"Well, dear, I can't believe I'm about to say this, but—," humor colored his expression and tone, "—we canvas."

"Canvas?" she repeated in disbelief.

"Yes. We put to use some of that good, honest police work you're always yammering on about. This—" he pointed at the body again. "—was sloppy. He may have made a mistake, may have been seen."

One corner of her lips tilted upward in a near grin at him, and she felt the stretching of her muscles with the unfamiliarity of the movement.

"Canvassing it is."

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

The good, honest police work had gone fairly smoothly, the six of them breaking up into pairs and basically asking the same single question of "Did you see anyone or anything?" Still, there were a lot of students to talk to and the ensuing forms and working things out with campus security and local law enforcement, so it was nearly midnight when they made their way back to their home base, having received the same disappointing answer to their questions.

Wainwright had been a tremendous help, fairly adept at interviews and smoothing the way politically and bureaucratically for them, and when he and Cho had returned to report in, he had held himself more as a partner than as a tag-along. He could learn a lot from the older agent, and Cho was a patient and subtle tutor. Lisbon decided the time working together had been good for both men. Then what, she couldn't figure out, was the reason for Wainwright's growing unease as they got closer to the CBI?

She thought it might be due in part to his not knowing exactly what to do with her. He couldn't just let her go home on her own now, and he had to know she would fight the suggestion of a protection detail. Telling him it wasn't worth her while at the late hour to drive home and try to get some sleep before coming back early in the morning, she announced her intention to spend what was left of the night on her office couch. When that only slightly assuaged his worry, she thought it may have something to do with Jane's earlier near confession (something she herself had put off thinking of). But Wainwright seemed perfectly relaxed in the consultant's presence, in contrast to his usual wariness. Thinking back on his interactions with Rigsby and Van Pelt, she realized that his behavior with them had also been professional but easy. His discomfort seemed to have something to do with her specifically. Considering what it might be, upon reaching her office, she pulled the door open and stepped into the room, stopping to stare at the occupants there. Realizing there were people behind her waiting to enter, she made her way to her desk then turned back to look directly into her young boss's troubled face.

"Don't be mad," he said, both hands held up, palms facing her in supplication and self-defense. Jane had to wonder how many times man and boy had made that request of her in just that way.

"What did you do?" she asked him, trying to keep the sound of threat to a minimum.

"When Jane said—Agent Lisbon, this has gone beyond what we can, or rather, what we _should_ be handling. We need more resources, more manpower. I'm not exactly sure how much more the CBI can be of help, so . . . I made a call," he finished lamely, running out of authoritative steam under her murderous glare.

"Teresa, he's right." A tall man unfolded himself from the couch and walked toward her, more confident against her ire than Wainwright had been, or Cho or Rigsby for that matter. "I know this isn't what you want, but it's time to admit you need the help." Her scowl deepened, and his voice smoothed like warm honey. "Your team is still point, but if you're at the center of this that means the priorities change, along with the protocol. We're just here to help."

Jane noticed the very tall, very handsome man had come just near enough to Lisbon to make what he was saying seem to be just between the two of them but not so near that his six-foot-six-inch height towering over her would be interpreted as an attempt at intimidation. Whoever he was, it was clear he knew her and knew her well. Still, even with the distance between them her head was tilted back far enough that looking up at him tightened her throat so that the whole room heard her swallow her reluctance.

"Everybody?" She brought her gaze to bear on Wainwright then swept it across her team, finally landing on Jane. "This is Special Agent Wyatt Stanton, Regional Director for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Most of you already know his wife," she motioned toward the couch as its other two occupants rose in obvious relief at the more friendly shift in the atmosphere, "Dr. Lydia Stanton, San Francisco County Chief Coroner, and, of course . . .," she paused, her eyes barely shifting to Jane's and back to the room at large, "Dr. Montague."


	5. And Ye Beneath Life's Crushing Load

**Author's Note: After several days of mondo computer problems followed by internet horrors of epic proportions, which both required remote as well as on-site solutions specialists (I'm not kidding—that's what they were called.), I'm finally able to post again. My original intention for this story was to post daily for 12 straight days, December 12****th**** through 23****rd****, the events taking place in real time then posting a single-chapter "Next Time" for Christmas Eve. A virus worthy of the ancient Saxons (no offense to anyone of that lineage) eating through my hard drive put paid to that, stealing my sweet control and putting me horribly behind. I was able to reconstruct most of this and have decided to post the rest of the story in its entirety, ending with the Christmas Eve piece as the epilogue. I hope your enjoyment doesn't suffer for it, if it's able to provide any after my meager attempts to salvage it. Needless to say, I now sleep with a flash drive.**

**Also, some have asked about the Stantons and Dr. Montuague. Dr. Lydia Stanton is a character of my own imagining who first appeared in the July installment of the Holiday/Next Time Series, "Rockets' Red Glare", in which her husband, Wyatt, was mentioned (as well as the conversation on Jane giving Lisbon a backrub to "cleanse her musculature"). Dr. Montague is a character from the show, a third season episode entitled "Blood Hounds" in which she is a psychiatrist who profiles and researches serial criminals.**

5. AND YE BENEATH LIFE'S CRUSHING LOAD  
>- <em>It Came Upon a Midnight Clear<em>

It was only nine o'clock in the morning, and her shoulders and head were already hurting. The few hours' lying on her couch had brought little rest and even less sleep. Wyatt Stanton had tried to convince Lisbon to spend the night at a safe house, but she didn't like the idea of being stowed away somewhere. Too tired to make an argument, she had simply adamantly refused to go, not caring when Grace and Jane had both elected to stay in the building with her. Blessedly, both had had the good sense to leave her to herself knowing she would need the time before the coming onslaught of meetings, evidence, case reports and two state agencies vying for control of what each would see as an important case no matter what terms had been reached by those on the ground. Their understanding aside, the feeling if not the certain knowledge of someone hovering outside her office or in the bullpen through the night had only added to her unease.

Upon receiving Wainwright's call, Wyatt Stanton had ordered the three victims' bodies sent up to the CBI along with any completed lab work. Lydia had stayed through the night—examining the bodies, going over findings and starting some of her own screens—never venturing out of the bowels of the building until the agreed-upon time for their meeting. Now they were all back—the SCU team, Wainwright, the Stantons and Dr. Montague.

"You don't look like you got much rest."

Lisbon had closed her eyes as she rubbed the back of her neck and hadn't heard Jane step to her side. She cracked one eye open and looked up at him where he had turned his back on the room to lean against her desk facing her.

"That couch isn't as comfortable as you promised it would be," she grumbled up at him.

"You should've gone to the safe house. You would've been more comfortable there."

"Depends on your definition." She stopped rubbing and rolled her head to one side and then the other, freezing for a second at the audible crack. Jane winced and smiled down at her.

"Stubborn woman. No wonder your shoulders hurt all of the time. Always refusing everyone's help."

"Pot, kettle. Are you offering to 'cleanse my musculature' again?"

"Are you going to take me up on it?" His smile broadened, pleased she'd remembered their conversation from what now seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Are you two still going on about that? Geez, Indiana, just give her the backrub, already!"

Lisbon's face flamed, and Jane had to stifle his laugh at her deer-in-the-headlights look.

"You didn't get enough sleep either, Lydia?" he asked his favorite coroner, turning to lean against the wall just behind Lisbon and to her right.

"I've had better. At least my roommates were quiet."

The sharp sound of a throat clearing alerted them to the start of the meeting, and all three turned their gazes to where Wyatt Stanton stood looking at his wife like she was a child whose behavior he couldn't understand. She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, at which he rolled his eyes, harrumphed again and turned to the others waiting in the room.

"As we discussed last night, this SCU unit is still point on this case, but we've been able to pull together some other resources to help things along. Agent Lisbon has decided to remain as lead," at which he point he turned and shot her the tiniest scowl, "and Lydia will be finishing up autopsies and processing and comparing data. We thought it would be best to keep everything as centralized as possible."

He paused briefly to survey the CBI team, Teresa Lisbon still at her desk, her consultant close behind, her subordinates sitting on her office couch. These people, this team, had been through hell in the past few months—over the past few years actually, as the Red John case had played out. He'd seen things like it in the past, many times. Usually, there was nothing left in the wake; no one remained unaffected, some team members dead, some broken, all terribly and irrevocably altered. What this team was, he had never seen. He knew a great deal of the credit for that could go to the woman behind the desk. Lydia had been right to argue so heatedly for them to stay on the case.

"Dr. Montague has made some rather interesting . . . observations." No one missed the arched look that passed between the special agent and his medical examiner wife. "That's where I think we need to start. There's quite a bit of background, some of which you may think is moot now, but please," his gaze moved from Lisbon to Jane and back, "hear her out. Dr. Montague."

The young woman stepped forward and ignored the way Jane shifted his weight and crossed his arms tightly across his chest. She was well acquainted with his opinion of her profession and methods. Still, having finally been granted access to every file even remotely connected to Red John—which now included copies of some of the pages of Jane's journal as well as his verbatim recounting of their pre-shooting conversation in the mall—she refused to be intimidated. She had caught a glimpse, a small isolated revelation of Red John the man. And she knew what she had seen.

"Red John," she began in what Jane knew must be her "lecture voice", "was very deliberate, exacting. Attentive to detail, calculating in his methods, a reason for everything he did, from the clothes that he wore to the victims he selected."

In the spirit of the proceedings, Jane interrupted her with a raised hand. Dr. Montague stifled the unprofessional urge to roll her eyes. "Mr. Jane," she called on him.

"Uh," he began in that smart-aleck way that grated on Lisbon's nerves, as if he meant to ask a question when in reality his intention was to pick apart someone else's logic. "There was no _reason_ in the selection of his victims. The randomness was always _part_ of his _method_."

"On the contrary, Mr. Jane. His reason for choosing your family was very specific."

"He wanted to punish me."

"He wanted to _engage_ you."

"Oh, I can assure you, Dr. Montague, I was already engaged."

"Not before your family was murdered."

"I was working with the authorities by then."

"As a fake psychic."

One eyebrow lifted, his only tell that he might have some small amount of curiosity about where she was headed with this.

"You were in show business, Mr. Jane. Everything related to perpetuating your performance as a psychic was just that-performance. He couldn't be sure you would stick with it."

Jane felt more than saw Lisbon shift in her chair, and that along with Montague's choice of words took him back to a conversation—more like a fight—he'd had with the agent months earlier on Valentine's Day, during which she had more than hinted at the same thing.

_"He'd been watching them for days, maybe even weeks. He'd found someone worthy of the game, and he wanted to make sure you stuck with it. He'd decided to kill them long before that night. Hell, if you'd broken with the CBI the next day, he would've killed them to get you back."_

Montague couldn't read his thoughts by the expressions that crossed his features, but she took his silence as a tacit agreement that she might be on to something.

"In his communications, there is clarity of thought as well as understanding of the circumstances he dictates and manufactures as well as their implications. But not for the victims. For the survivors—in this case, the investigators."

"You mean for me," Jane said for clarification.

"For the most part, yes."

"What do you mean," he turned his head slightly and squinted at her, "_for the most part_?"

"He had different messages, different parts, moves if you will, for you, Agent Lisbon, your team—even for Agents Bosco and Hightower. They've all played a part." She hurried on to speak before he could question her again. "This was a man whose mind worked logically, rationally. He knew what he was doing. He knew it was contrary to the law, human and spiritual. I would venture so far as to say he even knew it was wrong. But he didn't care. It was what he wanted. He made a plan, an intricate, brutal, murderous plan, and he intended to see it through."

"And then?" Jane asked, the others content to let him carry the conversation.

"And then he would come up with another plan, another game." Standing firm in the face of his silent scoffing, she continued. "He already had. Do you not remember what he said to you at the mall? He was moving on, going to 'retire', he said. Trying new things? Working with children?"

It was Lisbon who caught on first. "'Just another human being . . . flaws and vices and problems, just like anybody else.'"

Jane looked down at her head, able to catch only a slice of her profile from where he stood. Those words coming out of her mouth, in her voice, momentarily stunned him. She hadn't just read the report of his conversation with Red John. Apparently she had memorized it.

"He was saying he was an average guy. Equating his murders to mere faults, human failing," she elaborated.

Cho had his own questions now. "You're saying he had this plan, for this time that came to include Jane."

"Yes," Montague sighed in relief. They were starting to get it now, in spite of the mish-mash she'd made of it.

"But Jane wasn't part of the original plan," he continued.

"Of course not. The killings of which we're aware began in 1998, long before Mr. Jane entered the picture."

"And he just sort of stumbled upon Jane?"

"Or he was looking for him."

"Looking. For Jane."

"Or someone like him."

"Why?"

"For the game."

"So," Wainwright followed up on Cho's thought. "Red John looked for someone like Jane, another player—"

"No, the players were in place."

She almost despaired at the blank looks on their faces. She inhaled deeply. This time she would refuse to be interrupted.

"He had friends . . . colleagues that sat as the players. He needed a game piece." She saw his ego ruffle at that. "Not a pawn, not someone to just move around the board at his whim. He needed someone who would think outside of convention, someone intelligent and non-conformist. Red John would initiate events, set the circumstances. He was looking for someone who would make the game interesting."

"You make it sound like it was some sort of book club," Rigsby snorted.

"In a sense, and very simplistically stated, but yes." They stared at her open-mouthed, but she would persevere. "Red John was intelligent, brilliant in his way. He was methodical, precise, logical and—yes—rational. He acted and spoke with intention, and he did nothing, _nothing_ without a plan."

"Some plan," Rigsby interjected again with a dark, humorless chuckle. "Did the morgue fit in with his brilliant scheme?"

"I'm sure it didn't," Montague rejoined. "But that was a miscalculation. Like he said, he had flaws. No one, not even a genius, can be right all of the time. He wanted someone unpredictable. He just didn't expect such a deviation as Mr. Jane made."

To this point, Stanton, having been through the doctor's report and analysis, wasn't surprised by anything she'd said, though he could understand the SCU's inability to wrap their heads around it. What caught his investigator's eye were the looks of apprehension on Lisbon's and Jane's faces. He knew Montague had noticed the change in their demeanor as well, though she may not know how to correctly interpret it. He decided to let her continue, ready if he needed to step in.

"Mr. Jane," the psychiatrist said, facing him squarely from where she still stood across the room. "Was it your intention to kill Red John?"

The truth couldn't hurt him now. "Yes," he responded evenly.

"By any means?"

"Yes," this time a bit more hesitant.

"But the way in which it came about was not your preference." She continued in the face of his silence. "Were you satisfied with merely shooting him?"

All of Special Agent Wyatt Stanton's attention was on Jane now.

"I was . . .," Jane swallowed hard, knowing what she was getting at. "Satisfied. Yes, I can say I was satisfied."

"But it was not your preference," she repeated.

"No," he admitted.

"You meant to kill him in a more personal way. A more . . . meaningful way."

A sudden inhalation filled his lungs uncomfortably. "Yes."

"You never anticipated shooting him."

"Not until the very last, no."

She smiled, a mix of satisfaction and superiority that her hypothesis was correct.

"Neither did he."

She turned back to the room at large, hoping there would be no more interruptions and decided to summarize as succinctly as possible.

"Red John was the game master, setting the board, making the rules. He chose the players, carefully selecting who would sit at the table. He chose his victims, perhaps randomly at first but with just enough of a pattern and in different areas of the state, creating a pool of investigators, knowing at least one would emerge as the lead contender for play."

"Man," Rigsby grumbled. "That was one sick bastard."

"No," Montague rounded on him. Something in her sparked, and everyone in the room realized this was the most emotional, the most intense they'd ever seen her. "This _cannot_ be dismissed as just another, greater case of insanity."

She turned to the room in general.

"This man wasn't psychotic, neurotic or manic. He wasn't abused or abandoned as a child. He didn't do what he did because he was compelled, compulsed or constrained—he did it because he _could_. He wasn't some tortured soul trying to wrest control from fate or the Cosmos in retaliation for the terrible things that had been done to him. He did what he did because he enjoyed it. It brought him pleasure. And he surrounded himself with people who felt the same, not caring about their psychopathy as long as they could be controlled."

Had anyone else said such things, Jane would have patronizingly applauded the melodrama, due in largest part to his chafing at being considered a mere game piece. But Montague's quantified, though warm, delivery made him consider. After Todd Johnson, they had considered the terrible possibility of a group of serial killers working together, and Carter's own wife had been a part of it. Bosco's assistant, Rebecca, had killed three CBI agents without compunction. Orwell Tanner had been Red John's earliest known accomplice, his son Dumar Hardy following in his father's footsteps. And Gupta had seemed willing to blow up as many people as it would take to adequately serve the master. All things considered he was nearly prepared to accept Dr. Montague's theories. The subtle stirrings of the rest of the room's occupants hinted at their tentative agreement.

"So they all played the game, along with Red John," Wayne shot a sideways glance at Van Pelt. "And O'Laughlin."

Stanton addressed this point. "We believe-," he lowered his head with a grimace then cleared his throat uncomfortably again before looking up and directly into Jane's eyes. "There are strong indications that O'Laughlin wasn't the mole."

Jane nearly laughed in his face. It was Lisbon that gave voice to the team's collective disbelief.

"He came to the cabin – He told Grace – He _shot_ me! . . . He—"

Stanton held up a hand to staunch her outburst.

"There's no doubt he was in league with Red John and was probably very well paid for his efforts, but I knew O—" he caught himself and corrected. "I _worked_ with O'Laughlin. For years. I just don't think he was . . ." his voice faded, his mind searching for the right word.

"Intelligent enough? Or crazy enough." Jane surmised.

Stanton wasn't quite sure what he thought about Patrick Jane yet, no matter how ardently Lydia had endorsed him. He took a moment, looking, measuring.

"Something like that—both of those," he gave in then continued with a sigh. "In cases like these, there's always the twenty-twenty of hindsight. Things you see in a different context, expressions, gestures, conversations. I've gone over every interaction I can remember, and I'm just not coming up with anything. You?"

It took all of the team a moment to realize his question was directed at Grace. He hadn't missed her start at O'Laughlin's name or the quiet but defiant strength she exuded that he recognized personally as having come from great loss. And while he knew she would prefer to have everyone believe the matter was firmly behind her, he couldn't let her feelings take precedence over the need for any insights she might have discerned in looking back over conversations or remembered moments.

And for just an instant, he knew he was right. She looked caught, having to admit she'd thought of something so painful. She'd rather they all continue to believe she never did any thinking on it at all, even if it worried them. It made her look vulnerable and weak. It was important for them to know she wasn't either of those things anymore. She held her head up and returned the FBI agent's gaze steadily.

"No," she answered clearly. "Even looking back, there wasn't a hint."

No one in the room missed Rigsby's uncomfortable shift.

"You got something to say, Wayne?" Lisbon asked, quiet and encouraging.

His discomfort increased exponentially, and his gaze went to Cho who nodded a curt encouragement back at him.

"I don't know if it means anything, but . . . during the Hartley murder case—the guy whose body was stolen—when we went after the body snatchers . . ." he paused, martialing himself.

"When the two of you and O'Laughlin were pinned down," his boss prompted.

"Yeah. Grace's gun jammed, they were almost on her." His face crumpled at the pained memory. "O'Laughlin was closer," he swallowed against the bile that rose in his throat. "I yelled at him to cover her, but he just—just . . ."

He looked up, searching Grace's stunned eyes, his expression pained at his helplessness at the time as well as now in the retelling of it. Almost immediately, understanding lit her face.

"You came from behind. Threw yourself . . ." She took a moment to fully digest what he'd done. His eyes were pleading now, and she knew why. "It's ok, Wayne. I understand. You did everything you could . . . including saving my life."

For a moment, he didn't want to accept it, didn't think he should be let off the hook so easily. But when Van Pelt laid her hand on his forearm and gave him a small smile, he decided to take what she offered and be glad for it. The moment passed, but Stanton was once again made aware of everything these people had been through and come out of and that they were still very much _together_.

"We're seeing him as more of a henchman, and I think that's just further proof of his self-serving mentality more than any psychological link to Red John." Stanton let them take that in, knowing it wouldn't hang in the air for long.

"Working for money, _for_ the mole." Jane tested the words on his tongue the same way he knew Lisbon was churning through the meaning of it.

"So," she bit back a groan. "The mole's still active."

"We have to assume," Stanton answered, "in light of these recent killings, that he—or she—is still very much in the picture."

Lisbon collapsed against the back of her chair, the breath seemingly gone out of her. This was a nightmare. A hellish, frightening, blood-chilling, mind-rending nightmare.

"And he—or she—wants to kill me." Her voice was flat and emotionless. "Because I'm the lead investigator."

"No."

"Then why the hell _is_ he after me?" Lisbon's patience snapped, and every other person in the room waited for her reaction to what they knew Montague's answer would be.

The psychiatrist looked at her a for a moment, her previous warmth giving way to her more usual evaluative expression, eyeing Lisbon like she was something in a petri dish.

"It's because of your relationship with Jane."

She had meant to say it in a detached manner. It was, after all, fact. But when Jane shifted she realized the import of her, perhaps unwisely chosen, words.

"Not that exactly," she self-corrected, turning to him. "It's not _because_ of _you_. More because of the nature of the relationship." She took in Lisbon and Jane's expressions, their minds scrambling for questions and denials, and beamed at them in a most uncharacteristic manner, even as Agent Stanton harrumphed at his wife's snicker. "I'm sure," she continued, unable to help herself, "that it must have utterly fascinated him."

Noting Lisbon's rigid posture, Jane would rather the topic be dropped for her sake. But he knew what everyone was thinking and felt it would be best to just get it out in the open.

"Why don't you just explain to us exactly what you mean, Dr. Monty. I promise there won't be any more interruptions."

The good doctor couldn't have looked more pleased, and Lisbon's back muscles clenched from her shoulders to her waist.

"You and Agent Lisbon started out rather at odds, I'll wager," she began and continued at his nod. "Over time, you developed a give and take, a pattern of working together that fit both of your personalities." They were both willing to concede that much. "Eventually, you developed a kind of balance. You came to rely on one another, watched one another's backs. You started to include her in your schemes, and she became more willing to go along with them. And then you met Dumar Hardy."

A ripple effect went around the room, including Wainwright even though he hadn't been at the Bureau at the time.

"He was going to take you out to his family farm, but the two of you concocted a scheme that would send you out alone with Hardy and allow Agent Lisbon to come behind and perhaps catch Red John. But Hardy had no way of knowing about that scheme, did he? No way of knowing he wouldn't be leading both of you into that cellar."

Her explanation wasn't quite taking the direction he had thought it would. Jane had to admit she had his full attention and made no attempt to hide it.

"You assumed he meant to kill you, Mr. Jane. Maybe Red John did mean to end the game there, but as I said, he did what he did for pleasure. What pleasure could he possibly take in just killing you?"

Jane felt like the beginning of a light was coming on, somewhere in that part of his brain that had, over the years, developed a need to protect, save and harbor Lisbon that was almost as great an obsession as the one that had brought him to her in the first place. Montague must have noticed because she waited for another nod from him before she continued.

"I believe that it was indeed Red John's intention to end this game that day. He had spaced the murders out over the years, waited in part to see what progress would be made on the case, but mostly what personal progress _you_ would make. When your life carried on much like the investigation, with little movement and no deviations, Red John would have thought it a fitting end to land one final blow. And what better way than to make you watch as Red John killed the person—another woman—to whom you'd become the closest, if only in proximity? I think the intention to kill Agent Lisbon was further evidenced when Hardy regained consciousness and escaped his bonds to point a weapon at her rather than at you, even though you had exited the house at the time. He still had opportunity to carry out Red John's wishes, even if it wasn't in keeping with the original plan." Her eyes drifted to the side, and her voice sounded far away for a moment. "It would undoubtedly have been faster that way. And not nearly so . . .," her voice trailed off in her dark musing before she quickly came back, directly on point. "And then something completely unexpected happened." She turned and focused directly on Lisbon. "Mr. Jane picked up a gun and shot his only lead—the first ever—to Red John. To save _you_."

This time it was Wainwright that cleared his throat uncomfortably, and Jane wondered distractedly why he always seemed to have the same sort of reaction to any mention of his relationship with Lisbon.

"The game was suddenly changed, parameters expanded, and another game piece added, and all by you, Mr. Jane. The game was drastically altered and not by the game master or any of the other players. Undoubtedly, Red John would then want to see how the new angle played out . . . and if he could eventually use it to his advantage."

"To cause me even more pain."

"That would be the most plausible theory, yes. However . . .," and here she paused, unsure of how to continue, "it didn't move in the way he hoped for so long. He undoubtedly kept track of your relationship through the mole and perhaps even O'Laughlin. Not realizing . . .," here again she faltered, pursing her lips before she continued. "Since you and Agent Lisbon never behaved openly in a way that, . . . I mean, you probably didn't even fully realize yourselves . . ."

Finally, unable to take the undercurrent and innuendo any longer, Lisbon pushed for a cut to the bottom line.

"What does all of this have to do wanting to kill me now?"

Montague took a moment, considering her before answering. "O'Laughlin meant to kill you at the cabin that day."

"He would've had to if he wanted to kill Hightower."

"I mean part of his purpose in going to the cabin that day was to kill you. Somehow Red John knew Mr. Jane and Agents Cho and Rigsby would be at the mall, and once O'Laughlin knew you were with Agent Hightower—"

"I told him," Grace interjected, still obviously faulting herself with the events at the hideaway. "I told him Hightower was at the cabin and that Lisbon was there guarding her. That's when he said he wanted to come with me."

"Right. Two birds with one stone. Actually more. If Agent Lisbon hadn't stolen his advantage, he would have killed all three of you, as well as the children. And all while Mr. Jane listened on the phone."

"But he failed. And Red John's dead. And his friend, probably the mole, wants to kill me out of revenge."

"They want to get back at Mr. Jane, but they haven't forgotten the master's plan. Plainly speaking, Agent Lisbon," Montague finished, "they want to end the game, and you're unfinished business."


	6. Let Nothing You Dismay

**Author's Note: Howard Tell was a character in the May installment of the Holiday/Next Time Series, "What a Fellowship". He makes a reappearance in this and later chapters.**

6. LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY  
><em>- God Rest You Merry Gentlemen<em>

It was the early hours of the morning, or the late hours of the night, Lisbon wasn't sure which. Grace had gone home earlier, leaving Cho with the night watch. Jane had given up any pretense of wanting to give her space and lay lightly dozing on her office couch. Thinking back on the previous day, so newly over, Lisbon fought the urge to lay her head on her desk and groan. She supposed it was good to have a firmer understanding of what was happening and why, but to have it all laid out like that, in front of the others, had taxed Lisbon's composure to the limits. So much for not doing personal at work. And to make matters worse (or not as bad—she couldn't quite decide about that either), Jane had been completely silent on the whole thing. Oh, he talked. He talked about tea and toxicology and wound patterns and whether any of them would be going to the annual Christmas party—Lisbon had all but forgotten it was Christmas—but he had said nothing about Montague's theories. He had only seemed to accept them as fact.

And then Lydia had reported her own findings. Tox screens on the first two victims had revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Screens on Monica Walsh were still running, but nothing was expected to show up there either. The real story was in the bodies. The wound pattern was the same in all three victims, the same as nearly all of Red John's as well. But where his kills had been executed with a near medical precision, Chelsea Carlisle's killer had been angry, the wounds running deep and jagged. In contrast, Jessica Murphy's wounds had been neat, described by the coroner as "elegant even". Monica Walsh's killer had started out uncertain, initial cuts hesitant. While the first cuts, done with purpose and skill, usually served to stun the waking victims into shock, reducing their ability to fight back, those early shallow attacks had merely awakened her enough to rally. Her killer had then panicked and slashed at her wildly, barely managing to mimic the established pattern. Her adrenaline pumping, Monica had survived a few minutes after the final assault, during which the killer had put the cross in her hand. None of them believed it was a token of his remorse over the deed but rather over his ineptness in the performance of it.

The evidence was clear: They were dealing with three killers . . . so far. The rest of the day had been spent hashing through the more humdrum facets of working the case—bank and phone records and computer hard drives, none of which had gotten them any farther. The day had ended as the one before it with Wyatt Stanton trying to convince Lisbon to allow him to drive her to a safe house. She had said no again, staunch in her refusal. But the weight of the day and its revelations was beginning to settle on her, and with Jane resting on her couch, she wondered where she was to lay her head.

She closed her eyes and rubbed at the furrow of her brow.

"Having second thoughts?"

Eyes open now, he watched her, ready to counter her deflection, surprised when she offered none. Instead, her eyes remained closed, her fingers continuing their circular soothing.

"No," she answered eventually.

"Really. You're not wondering why you didn't go?"

"I'm really not wondering why I didn't go."

"He can keep you safe, you know. He'll watch out for you. It's why he's here."

At that she did open her eyes and lower her hand to scowl at him.

"Tell me, Lisbon," he said with that lazy and unnerving smile, "was there a red-blooded male cop or agent you knew in San Francisco who _didn't_ fall in love with you?"

"He was never in love with me. There was nothing between us."

Her scowl held steady until he stared her down. One skeptical eyebrow lifted, and she caved.

"We dated," she huffed. "Went out three or four times. Nothing came of it. We were too much alike, and we both knew it and it was all right. Then one day he happened to be at the precinct when Lydia came up to tell me how long a victim had been in the bay. She started talking decomp, and it was love at first sight."

"And you didn't mind."

"Of course not. They were perfect for one another. Lydia keeps Wyatt from getting too serious, and he keeps her from flying off into left field. I was happy for them." She bit her bottom lip lightly to control a grin. "And they eloped. Worked out for everybody."

He closed his eyes sleepily. "Still, you should've—"

"Nowhere is safer than right here."

The firmness of her voice had him looking at her again, and he found himself captivated by her direct gaze.

"I'm not the best bodyguard material."

"You don't have to be. That's my job. And Cho's just out in the bullpen." Her voice and expression softened, but her tone was no less confident. "I figure if they can get past you, they can get past anybody."

He lolled his head to the side and looked at her, waiting for the joke. When none came he realized she had meant it and felt the full weight of it on him.

"I wish there was something more I could do. Something to make this easier for you."

"Well, there is one thing," she said almost shyly.

"Name it, dear," he responded, immediately intrigued.

She wrinkled her nose in answer. "Go sleep on your own couch."

Happily, except for the fact of leaving her, he obliged.

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Howard Tell approached the coffee shop, equal parts curiosity and anticipation. He had never met with her outside of the few times he had questioned her during the course of a PSU investigation. Other than that, it was a friendly nod and smile in the hallway or elevator. He'd been surprised to get the call to meet early just before the start of the regular shift. Even having more than an inkling of what was going on with Lisbon and the new wave of murders, there was no reason why she would want to talk to him, and on the down-low at that.

The bell above the door chimed his arrival, and he took in the room. She sat in the corner, back to the wall, eyes on. He could tell she was nervous, but that's where it stopped. Grace Van Pelt had the look of a woman that would probably never outright fear anything again.

"Mr. Tell," her eyes lit up as he approached the table, and he couldn't for the life (or age) of him repress the masculine pleasure he felt at it or the fact that she'd called him by something less formal than "Agent".

"Miss Van Pelt," he countered with a nod and a Texas drawl, and she imagined that if he'd worn a hat he would've touched his index finger to it out of respect.

As he sat down, a waitress delivered two cups of coffee, the lady's sweet and light and his, strong and black. He wondered how she'd known what to order for him.

"Lucky guess," she smiled demurely, and he grinned widely at her reading him so easily.

"I'm thinkin' I'm the lucky one. Or I would be if I didn't know you've got better things to do than have coffee with an old codger like me. Just what is it you need, Grace?"

"I need a favor, but whether you agree to it or not, it's got to stay between the two of us. LaRoche can't find out. I imagine he's even tougher on PSU matters now than he was before he headed Serious Crimes."

"Will be when he gets back. Big bosses decided he needed some 'administrative leave', kinda clear his head after the Hightower and Red John snafu. That's what they called it anyway. More like office time-out. Some think he coulda handled things better. At any rate, he's back east, usin'' the time to visit kin."

"Perfect." She dropped all pretenses. She only knew Tell by reputation, which would have satisfied her enough, but she also knew Jane trusted the Texas transplant and there had to be good reason for it. "I need your help, but like I said, this stays between the two of us."

He took a sip of coffee and leaned forward, elbows on the table, all ears.

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By three p.m., Lisbon was wishing for anything to take her mind off the "Red Copycat Murders" as the press had dubbed them. They were all over the news now in every medium, minus any mention of Lisbon's central role. Bertram, not wanting to push too hard since it was believed she was the intended victim, had called rather than visited but had still managed to somehow make her feel like he was breathing down her neck. She'd been in the building for nearly thirty-nine hours straight, and if she didn't get out soon, she really didn't feel that she could be held accountable for her actions.

Escaping the near constant company of Jane and whatever CBI or FBI agents always seemed to be loitering nearby, she had pleaded the need for privacy and headed for the ladies' room only to duck out at the last minute, not even caring if she was seen and knowing she could get out before anyone could stop her. How much could happen between here and the coffee cart?

As luck would have it, she stepped off the elevator and onto the first floor just as Lydia Stanton was approaching the doors.

"Where do you think you're going?" the coroner demanded.

"I've got to get out of this building, Lyddie. Even if it's just for a few minutes. Everybody's watching me, and Wyatt's going to push the safe house again, and I'm really starting to hate my office."

"Got it. How far are we running?"

She could always rely on Lydia. "Coffee cart?"

"Let's go. And it's on me."

Lisbon pushed against the doors and walked out into the cool, clear sunshine, and it was like stepping into another world. The street lights around the capitol square were decked with wreaths, and Andy Williams crooned "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" on the street barista's radio. As she stepped to the curb, a thought overtook her, and she turned to look back and up at the building with a touch of longing.

"You know, he probably would've come with you if you'd just asked him," Lydia counseled flatly.

Lisbon didn't even try to put her off. "I know. I guess. It's just that . . . Everybody's . . . I didn't want . . . It's not supposed to be like this," she finally blurted.

Lydia couldn't seem to help laughing at her. "What's not supposed to be like this?"

"All of it. Any of it. It's like we're in this no-man's land. Somebody's trying to kill me because Jane . . . what? Feels something for me? What does that mean? And he's not talking about it, and I don't know what he's thinking, and I don't even know if I _want_ to know what he's thinking, and he didn't deny anything Montague said, but are we still friends, and are we just ignoring all of it and pretending . . . What?"

Lydia was looking at her, her face crimped into a frown.

"I was just wondering if coffee is going to be enough and how much trouble I'd be in with my husband if I took you to a bar."

"Coffee's fine," Lisbon said dejectedly.

"Are you sure? 'Cause it sounded like you were having a meltdown. Over a boy."

"That bad, huh?"

"Eighth grade flashed before my eyes."

"Crap."

"It's okay, sweetie, we've all been there. Well, the rest of us have. I'm betting this is the first time for you."

"No, I was in the eighth grade too."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Good, because I don't want to hear anything until you can relay some of the good stuff."

Lisbon swatted at her arm, and Lydia stepped up to the cart and ordered two pumpkin lattes, doctoring Lisbon's with extra sugar before she turned back to hand the drink to her. Both of them blew across the top of the steaming liquid a few times before popping the caps back on.

"I guess I should go up."

"Looks like you'll have to—your escort's here. Great. I'm busted too."

Lisbon followed the direction of Lydia's nod to where Jane and Wyatt had emerged from the building and stood glaring at them, arms crossed tightly against their chests in identical poses. Both women walked past them and back into the CBI wordlessly, the men following. When they reached their floor, it was Agent Stanton that broke the silence.

"Lydia. I'd like a word with you."

She looked at Lisbon, rolled her eyes and stepped away in the direction her husband had indicated. Thinking to simply make a break for it, Lisbon headed the other way only to feel Jane's hand at her elbow, pulling her back.

"You know, if you'd just asked I would've gone out to get the coffee for you."

"I didn't want anyone to get the coffee for me," she huffed in exasperation.

"Fine. I would've gone out with you."

"That's what Lyddie said."

"Well, maybe you should listen to one of us."

"I just needed to get out, Jane—" She turned to look at him and saw the reprimand hovering in his eyes. The strain of the past few days finally steamrolled over her, and she immediately defaulted to anger. "You know what? I don't have to explain anything to you. I don't have to ask your permission or your forgiveness. I don't even have to _talk_ to you!"

She was so angry her eyes felt hot, and curiously, her vision began to blur. She needed a break a lot more than she had realized. The growing concern in his eyes only seemed to spur her on. She opened her mouth to tell him off some more, but the words wouldn't come. Jane was talking, but she couldn't quite make it out. His voice sounded far away, and he suddenly _looked_ far away even though she could still feel his hand on her arm. Her head clouded with fuzz, and she tried to shake it away only to hear Jane shout her name, so far away she couldn't answer. She was vaguely aware of something wet and hot at her feet just before everything went black.

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_Odd_, she thought. _That smells just like the morgue_.

She opened one eye, just enough to see that the room was entirely too bright. A groan echoed in the cold, cavernous room, and she could tell by the rumble in her chest that it had come from her. She licked her dry lips, and the smacking sound made her wince.

"Hello, Sleeping Beauty!" Lydia chirped. Lisbon checked for a sidearm, but her holster was not only empty, it had been removed while she was out.

"Think you can sit up?" The question was asked seriously and a bit more quietly, and the coroner took both of Lisbon's hands to help her up.

"What happened?" Lisbon moaned.

"You swooned. Right into the professor's arms," Lydia pronounced proudly, as if she had performed some impressive feat.

"Why?"

"He was handy?" She realized under the strength of Lisbon's glare that she was pushing the line and dropped her teasing. "You passed out. We brought you down here so I could check you out instead of taking you to a hospital. It's probably a combination of stress and lack of rest. And aside from the pumpkin in the latte you almost drank, when was the last time you ate? And I don't mean out of a vending machine."

Lisbon stared at her blankly, realizing she couldn't come up with the answer to that question. But she did have one of her own.

"What's wrong with my shoulder?"

"You hit it on the way down. There's a little bruise but nothing serious."

Lisbon frowned down at her loafers, dangling a few inches above the floor. "Can I get up?"

"Sure," Lydia answered from where she was cleaning up. "Lying on your office couch should be fine." She turned suddenly and wagged her finger. "But have somebody get you something to eat. Rigsby should be able to handle that."

"Fine. Walk me up?"

Mrs. Stanton jerked her head sideways toward the door. "That job's already spoken for." Turning toward the exit she raised her voice. "You can come in! She's up!"

She barely got the words out of her mouth before Jane pushed through the swinging door. Stopping suddenly, he looked at Lisbon worriedly and pushed his hand back through his already disheveled hair. He looked more haggard than he had in weeks, and she suddenly wanted to put her arms around him and tell him everything was going to be all right. Shaken by the overwhelming desire to comfort him, she only held out a hand to him, knowing she would need some help to keep her steady on her feet. He leaned down and slid one arm around her waist, causing her outstretched hand to slide along his shoulder and around his neck. Straightening slowly as she slid from the table, he felt her move down the length of his side. Her hand came away from his neck and rested on his upper arm, and she would've stepped away, but he held her close, looking at her intently.

"Lydia said it was stress. And not eating enough?" he asked, searching her face for confirmation that there was nothing more serious they weren't telling him.

She only nodded wordlessly, realizing she would ordinarily be embarrassed over such a thing, but at the moment it didn't seem so important.

"You're a real bother, you know that?" he asked after a breath of relief. "Looking after you is turning into a full-time job."

"Well, it's not like you wear yourself out doing your _other_ full-time job," she groused. "Besides, I don't need anybody looking out for me."

"You wouldn't say that if you'd hit the floor. You went down hard and fast. And not everything's about you. What about _my_ needs?"

Lydia cleared her throat behind them before Lisbon was forced to respond. "This is very sweet. Really. But we have to keep it cool in here for the stiffs. So if you two could just . . .?"

Lisbon made to step away from him, and he let her but kept a hand at the small of her back. The door swung shut behind them, and Lydia shook her head, smiling to herself. Lifting her phone out of her lab coat pocket, she pushed and held a single number.

"It's done," she said simply before snapping the cell shut and dropping it back into place.


	7. In Sin and Error Pining

7. IN SIN AND ERROR PINING  
><em>- O Holy Night<em>

It wasn't difficult to figure out how the Stanton's conversation had gone after they'd exited the elevator together the day before. Lydia was as forthright as ever, if more solicitous, and Wyatt hadn't even mentioned the safe house. Jane had conjured up a couple of pillows and full-sized blanket for her, and with her becoming more accustomed to spending the night on her couch, she had slept relatively well, waking only when she heard voices out in the hallway.

Just after eight a.m., a tentative knock at her door brought her fully awake, and at her invitation, Luther Wainwright stuck his head in the door with an apologetic look.

"I know it's difficult to imagine another priority right now, but there's a body just outside of Sonora by Stanilaus National. Apparently the locals have a question about jurisdiction, and the other homicide units are swamped with the divided case load. Do you feel up to—"

She threw back the blanket and swung her legs over the edge of the couch before he could finish the question. "Are the others all in?"

"Present and accounted for," he grinned in relief as well as pleasure that he'd been able to do something to liven her up, even if it was to tell her about a dead body they needed to go look at.

"Tell them we leave in ten." She headed for her desk to arm up, stopping in mid-stride when she realized what she'd said to him. "Please."

His grin widened and he withdrew to carry out her request. She thought through driving arrangements and what she knew of the Sonora and Stanislau area as she checked her clip. Holstering her weapon and grabbing badge and keys, she exited the office. A quick stop in the restroom with her toiletries bag, and she was ready, refusing to think about how much she missed her full-sized shower at home regardless of the convenience of the bureau dressing rooms.

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One Jeremy Russell, a hiker from Walnut Grove, had "gone and got himself shot" according to the local sheriff. After Jane had ruffled feathers by stating patronizingly that he hoped they didn't mind if the real cops didn't rush to the conclusion that it was entirely the victim's fault, Wainwright had stepped in to smooth things over, and the investigation had begun.

It was fairly cut and dried. Russell, wanting to take advantage of the fair Sunday weather, had come over to hike the forest for the day, and a few hundred yards into the trail had met with death by gunshot to the forehead, probably a small caliber handgun at fairly close range. Cause of death was obvious, but there were few other usable clues. The ground was so trampled by hikers and the ghoulishly curious that a clear set of footprints couldn't be lifted, not even Russell's if they hadn't had his boots.

It was obvious Jane had been nearly as on edge as Lisbon from being cooped up at their office building from the level of sheer ass-ery he managed to achieve. Between that and his incessant hovering, Lisbon was glad for the excuse to leave him behind in favor of taking Wainwright on the two hour-long drive to question Jeremy Russell's as yet unaware widow. Leaving instructions, including her order to meet back at the Bureau later in the day, she felt a little guilty watching Jane in the rearview mirror as he looked after her departing vehicle. But when he raised his hand in a regal, mocking wave, confident of her eyes on him, her vision locked on the road ahead without another glance.

Jeremy Evan Russell was a small pillar in his tiny community. Respected by all, adored by his young son and faithfully in love with his wife, no one—relative, friend or neighbor—could comprehend anyone wanting him dead. And neither Lisbon nor Wainwright was able to ferret out any lies on the matter. Afraid that they might have an indiscriminate killer on the loose, the two agents wrapped up their canvas and headed east to take the interstate back up to Sacramento.

Back at the scene, Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt were able to concur that the murder weapon was a SIG, fairly common, powerful and deadly, favored by gun enthusiasts for personal protection as well as nearly a third of the law enforcement officers in the state. The body was picked up by a nearby county coroner who promised to send the bullet, once retrieved, up to the CBI along with his full report.

Now back in the car, most of the day gone, Jane took his cell from his vest pocket and punched one on his speed dial to bring up the picture. He wouldn't make the call. He'd already done so twice and was rewarded with the iciest tones and shortest responses Lisbon could muster. He knew he'd been insufferable and that that particular side of him would have been harder for her to endure today. But the constant worry of the past few days as well as the effort it was taking to hide it had worn away at his veneer and both he and Lisbon had come near the breaking point. Near but not crossed. They'd been through a lot, mostly by his own stupidity and recklessness, but she hadn't thrown him over yet. He rubbed the pad of his thumb back and forth over the picture affectionately. That had been a good day, and he had teased her to a delicate blush before throwing a barb that had made her instantly angry. He had immediately said something to placate and please her and had taken the picture just as the hint of the smile had appeared. He had managed to capture all three faces—the sweetly embarrassed, the quick tempered, and the readily forgiving—all in one shot. She had never liked that picture and had chided him about taking another, but he liked this far better than something posed and practiced. Aware of Grace's eyes on him, he snapped the phone shut and laid back in his seat with a "Wake me when we're home" before closing his eyes.

Back at the bureau, he settled into Lisbon's couch to await her return, plan for getting back in her good graces already in place, beginning with the bag of pastries he'd talked Cho into stopping for. From her last check-in, Lisbon and Wainwright were about an hour behind them. So, he was a little confused when Rigsby shook him from a sound doze.

"Jane. Wake up. We need you to see if you can reach Lisbon. We've all tried and her calls are going straight to voicemail. Wainwright's too."

He fumbled for his phone as he sat up and made the call. _"You've reached Teresa Lisbon. I can't take your call—"_

The phone snapped shut, and he was on his feet and out the door heading for the bullpen and straight for where Grace was on her computer.

"Her phone. Is it off? Can you trace it?"

"I've got it." She looked up over her shoulder at him in confusion. "Heading north. A tower running along 99 toward Yuba City."

"We can be there in just under an hour," Cho said, slipping on his jacket.

"Cho—" Grace tried to interject.

"Keep the trace running as long as you can, Van Pelt. And call the locals, tell them we're coming and we'll want back-up."

"Cho, let me—"

"Grace." He was heading for the door, Rigsby and Jane hot on his heels, and paused just long enough to turn back to her patiently. "Somebody's got to stay—"

"I bugged Lisbon," she broke in. All three men stared at her, Rigsby's mouth agape.

"You . . . what?" Jane asked, uncertain as to whether he'd heard correctly.

"I bugged Lisbon," she repeated as she punched a number out on her cell and held up a finger indicating they should wait while she made the call. "We can't reach Lisbon. Her phone is headed north on 99, but the tracker says otherwise. Something's not right—can you come down?"

She closed her phone and turned to look at Jane before hesitantly shifting her eyes to Cho. Arms crossed tight against his chest and jaw working furiously, the senior agent glared at her a moment before issuing the simple command, "Explain."

Lydia and Wyatt Stanton walked in at that moment, and Grace was torn between relief at seeing the one and apprehension at the other. She had hoped the precautions she'd initiated wouldn't be needed and so hadn't thought through the scenario in which she would have to explain her actions. Still, she wouldn't regret the steps she'd taken.

"If they were as determined to come after Lisbon as we feared," she began, unsure of just how to account for the plan she'd put into action or whom else she should implicate. "I knew there was a possibility we would need a way to keep track of her, find her if something happened."

"And how did you go about this?" Grace drew back at what she recognized was Cho's interrogation tone.

"I drugged her," Lydia answered, stepping to Grace's side to face him and the others.

"You _what?_" Wyatt Stanton's voice rose an octave and double its usual decibel level.

"When the two of you went for coffee," Jane reasoned. "You slipped something into her latte. That's why she passed out."

"What did you do, Lydia?" Stanton's voice was back under control but not his temper.

"It was Grace's idea. And a good one," she faced him defiantly then turned to Jane. "And yes, I put ketamine in her latte."

"_You roofied the boss?_" Rigsby's gaze went from one woman to the other, torn between shocked disbelief and admiration.

"Only enough to get her groggy. Or so I thought." Lydia's eyes drifted as did her thoughts as she considered the matter practically. "She really was stressed and hadn't been getting enough sleep. Probably why she passed out. Helped with the injection."

The dry crackle of her husband's throat clearing recaptured her attention. "While she was unconscious I injected her with a subcutaneous transmitter. In the shoulder."

Jane moved to stand behind Grace, leaning over her, one hand gripping the back of her chair and the other curling around the edge of her desktop. He understood what they'd done and why and was ready to get on with putting their plan to use. Stanton's inability to let it go wasn't getting them any closer to finding Lisbon.

"And where did you get a subcutaneous transmitter?"

"I'm afraid that would be my doin'."

They all turned as Howard Tell entered the bullpen and watched him walk to Van Pelt's desk to stand next to Jane and look over her head at her monitor.

"What've you got, Grace?"

She pointed at a spot on the screen and answered. "I tracked the bug to this point, just outside of Walnut Grove. But," she swallowed hard, "it's not transmitting anymore."

She saw Jane's hand tighten around the edge of her desktop then refocused her attention on the computer screen. Moving her fingertip northward on the map displayed there she finished her explanation to Tell. "I traced Lisbon's phone here, moving toward Yuba City and now just a little further north."

"I say we go with the phone," Cho asserted. "The bug's not moving—probably disengaged it—the phone's still in play."

"Is that possible?" Rigsby asked, sick at the thought of what would have to happen to "disengage" a monitoring device from under the skin.

"Yes," Lydia answered quietly. "If he knew what to look for. I injected it at the back of her shoulder so she would think she had hurt it when she passed out. If she was able to reach it she'd just feel a bump. Someone familiar with the technology and the procedure wouldn't have any trouble figuring out how to remove it, especially since it was new and hadn't fully imbedded."

While the others talked, Jane had been studying the map on Grace's computer, following their discussion as he tried to reason through the two dots on the screen. The thought of what Lisbon could have gone through to have the transmitter dislodged was troubling enough, but it was Lydia's subdued tone that was nearly unnerving him. That being the case, it surprised even him when he spoke as the voice of reason.

"He wouldn't . . . remove the transmitter and overlook her phone. It's logical to assume he tossed it, probably in or onto a passing vehicle, to throw us off."

He was cut off by a ping on the computer. "What's that?" he asked urgently.

"It's a trace I was running on Wainwright's phone. It's not far from where the tracker shut off."

"Is he moving?"

"Doesn't look like it."

"Right. He straightened to look at Tell, Stanton and Cho. "I say we give Yuba City police the coordinates for the phone and keep tracking from here until they find it. We should go south, meet up with locals that way to look for Lisbon. And Wainwright."

"Sounds like a plan," Tell seconded. Grace was already dialing before Cho and Stanton agreed.

"So we head south," Cho said. "And you," he turned to Grace, unable to maintain his attempt at a disapproving glare and sighing in resignation, "I'll call you when we're getting close so you can track my phone in relation to Wainwright's."

Jane waited out the flurry of weapon checks, running one thumb against the other palm in agitation until a fair hand laid firmly on his forearm, arresting the movement, and he looked up and into Lydia Stanton's crystal blue eyes.

"You'll find her."

He nodded. "I will."

And then they were gone.

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They must have been on a highway, traveling which way she had no way of knowing. Both times she had awakened she'd been aware of the smoothness of the ride in spite of the discomfort that came with being tied up and thrown into a car trunk. This time the stinging in her shoulder had pulled her from sleep, and she was lucid enough to wonder what had become of Wainwright. And it was colder. The sun must have gone down. She wondered vaguely what time it was, thought of Jane and drifted back into unconsciousness.


	8. For Hate Is Strong

8. FOR HATE IS STRONG  
><em>- I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day<em>

They made it to the location from where the bug was last transmitting but couldn't find the device itself. Wainwright's phone was located nearly an hour later. Sweeping out in ever-widening circles had brought them to the SUV. It had taken them two hours longer to find Wainwright.

A sudden tire blowout had sent them careening off the road, and when Wainwright had stepped out to ascertain the damage, he'd been knocked out by a surprise blow to the back of the head and tossed into the SUV. The vehicle had then been driven in its damaged state approximately eight miles where it was abandoned on the lonely back road. Luther had awakened and wandered, disoriented and confused, until he had collapsed in a farmer's field.

Unable to discover anything more from Walnut Grove, Jane, Cho, Rigsby, Stanton and Tell had headed back to Sacramento, dropping Wainwright off at Sacramento Memorial for medical treatment and hoping Van Pelt would have found something, anything, that would put them closer to finding Lisbon.

The cell phone had been located in the bed of a pick-up truck headed for home in Oregon, tossed there—as Jane had guessed—to serve as a decoy. The sheriff in Walnut Grove had overseen having the SUV towed and had phoned in to tell them they'd found a round from a SIG lodged in the inside tire rim. At that point, they all had to consider the disturbing probability that Jeremy Russell's death might have been merely a ploy to draw Lisbon out in the field on the off chance they might be able to get at her. Jane's thoughts had gone down a maudlin road, chased by his guilt at having driven her away with only Wainwright to watch out for her, but Grace had seen him turning in on himself and had told him sharply he didn't have the luxury of wallowing in his self-recrimination and that he was needed—that Lisbon needed him.

Now it was noon, and they had exhausted the few leads they had and were no closer to finding Lisbon than they had been before they even knew she was in trouble. Himself exhausted, Jane went to her office, hoping that he might find some comfort there. Once inside, his eyes tracing the layout of the room, he realized how vain that hope had been. Any solace he had known there had never come from the space itself but from its primary inhabitant. He lay down on her couch and pushed his face into the pillow she had left behind the day before, inhaling the faint trace of her scent that still remained. The light fragrance, part spice and part sweet and part her, caused a pull in his abdomen that rose up through his chest and into his throat as if someone had wrapped the very cords that kept him bound together around their fist and given a mighty heave. He missed her. _So much_. And he knew if Red John or his associates had wanted to finally undo him, this was the way.

While he wouldn't have balked at remaining there and reveling in any reminder of her, he was off the couch and out the door at the sound of Cho's desk phone ringing, signaling a call of an official nature. He strode into the room but came up short at the sight of Cho's stricken face. He hung up and turned to look out the window, nearly in a daze.

"Cho?" Grace queried faintly.

"That was Bertram," he said turning back to them, his expression back to its usual business-like mask. "Oscar Ardiles is dead. He says we need to go."

In light of the current situation, they knew Bertram's insistence that they, in particular, work Ardiles' murder could only mean one thing. Wearily, they made for the elevators, lost in their scattered thoughts. In the parking lot, they headed for their respective vehicles and drove away from the building in a solemn caravan.

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Her shoulder was really hurting now, and she was awake enough to be suspicious about Lyddie's explanation. The bruised sensation had been replaced with a stinging throb, and if the dry adhesion of her shirt was any indication there was or had been blood.

She was out of the car and blindfolded, and she could smell dampness rather than feel it, and she realized it was the ocean. _Somewhere along the coast then_. She wasn't sure exactly how long she'd been out, but she was only just beginning to feel the pangs of hunger. She and Wainwright had stopped at a drive-thru for sandwiches at about five thirty, so she couldn't have lost more than a few hours. Her hands were tied tightly behind her back, and she struggled against the bonds until she caught the sound of heavy footfalls descending stairs. Instinctively, she turned toward the sound of them. A door creaked open, and the smell of the sea grew stronger.

Whoever had come into the room stopped directly in front of her and just stood, she assumed looking down at her where she sat on what she felt was a plain camping cot. Close enough to catch a scent, she detected a man's cologne. She could feel the increased heat of his body and knew he was leaning toward or over her and resisted the impulse to shy away. Clumsy fingers pulled at the blindfold's knot at the back of her head and finally managed to untie it, taking some of the strands of her hair with it.

She blinked hard, trying to clear her vision and take in her surroundings in the dim light that spilled in from the hallway. She could barely make out the sparseness of the space, a roughed in bathroom with only a commode in a near corner, and if the deep chill was anything to go by there was no ductwork or venting for heat. The man standing before her lowered himself into an ungainly squat, bringing his face close to hers. The shock of it had her unbalanced for a moment, but when his eyes met hers and the perpetual shifting back and forth that had often mesmerized as well as repulsed her stilled, the reality came clear.

"_You_," was the only word she uttered, just one syllable, filled with as much indignation, revulsion and betrayal as she had ever felt.

"Agent Lisbon," he responded, panting through his nose, his position made strenuous by his bulk. "I trust you haven't been too uncomfortable."

He untied her hands from behind her back and nodded toward the commode, and she understood that he meant for her to use it. She scowled at him not intending to give him the satisfaction, but he gave her a rough shove and turned his back on her with a warning.

"It will be a few hours before you'll have the chance again. I'd take the opportunity if I were you."

Reluctantly she obeyed him, willing away the degradation. When she was finished, he turned back to her and gruffly took hold of her upper arm and thrust her back onto the cot, picking up the thread of his previous conversation, his voice a mimic of conciliation.

"We would have liked to have had more time to get the place ready for you, but certain circumstances have arisen which forced us to move up our timetable a bit. I hope you understand."

In spite of his solicitous words, she caught the underlying air of contempt and wondered if it had always been there, even when he had hugged her good-bye when he left the unit a few weeks earlier. Now there was no mistaking it in his tone or expression, the latter so filled with hatred that she couldn't resist the impulse to draw away as he reached for her arm no matter her determination to show no fear. He withdrew a hypodermic needle from his pocket, uncapped it and administered the injection without explanation.

"You won't get away with this, _LaRoche_," she spat his name. "None of you. If we're anywhere near where I think we are, I've been missing for a few hours, long enough for them to start looking. And they'll figure it out. _He'll _figure it out. You don't need to worry about the accommodations—I won't be here long."

He looked at her in mock surprise at her assumption. "Why, Teresa. I never expected to 'get away' with anything. That's not what this is about. Jane committed the most heinous of violations, and he will pay for what he did, and _you'll_ pay for helping him. If we have to pay a price for making that happen then so be it. As for the 'accommodations', keeping you around was never part of the plan."

He sat watching her, waiting for the drug to take effect. As her vision began to fog, the cryptic nature of his words set in and she wondered if they had a more immediate meaning. She thought of her brothers and of the team and of Jane, and despite her best efforts, she visibly trembled.

LaRoche sneered and assured her patronizingly, "Not yet, Agent Lisbon. We still have a way to go. You're right. He will figure it out. Eventually. But we'll want him to have the proper welcome, won't we? And timing is everything."

As she watched him, his body seemed to slant like a reflection in a funhouse mirror, and she felt as if her blood had started to hum. "But don't worry. We have entertainment planned for you in the interim." He smiled, slow and disdainfully, as she started to shake. "That's it. Now, just lie back and try to relax." He helped her none too gently then left the room and she heard a double deadbolt slide into place. He fumbled with something on the wall, and loud, heavy metallic music filled the small room. Something white and hot shot through her head, and a bare light bulb high on the wall flicked on, red and fiendish in her drug-fevered mind. The low ceiling was partially covered in over-large, blown up photographs. Pictures of her family, whole and happy mixed with arrest photos of one of her brothers and her father, their eyes haunted and unsmiling. She convulsed and vomited the small remaining contents of her stomach when she realized a grouping of shots near her was of her mother's accident scene, the victim still posed broken and gruesome on the street. Against her will, her eyes roamed over them, taking in image after image, the faces seeming to lift from the paper to blend with her own dark memories of fear, torment and grief. She was finally able to shift her gaze from them only to feel it drawn to the wall over the cot, locking on the red smiling signature there. She tried to close her eyes, wanting to just pass out and found she could do neither. Whatever LaRoche had given her, his design was clear, and she could not escape from the nightmare.

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The first thing about the scene that Jane thought out of place was Bertram's presence there. What he found extraordinary was the lack of the usual presence of the news media that the director generally drew when he ventured anywhere beyond the capitol and the CBI building. The team as well as Howard Tell and both Stantons had parked along the curb in the trending riverside neighborhood within seconds of one another, and Bertram had walked out to meet them as if he'd been watching for their arrival. Even more surprisingly, he headed directly for Jane, any lingering discomfort at the consultant's presence seemingly forgotten as he fell into step with him.

"I appreciate . . . I know you all have a lot on your mind right now—" His voice was low and urgent, but Jane heard the note of concern as well. "—but this is just the damnedest thing, and frankly, Jane, I don't know what to make of it."

"You've been inside?"

"Oh—yes. And it's . . ." His voice trailed off, and Jane felt a pang of sympathy. He had never believed in coincidence, and Ardiles' death coming at this particular time couldn't be anything close to one though he had a hard time discerning what reason Red John's friends could have for wanting the prosecutor dead.

"It's always difficult, but the first time is definitely overwhelming."

"The first time?"

"At a Red John crime scene. Even if it is just an imitation."

At that the director stopped, stilling Jane's progress up the walk with a hand to his arm.

"It's not Red John."

"Then what—"?

"Suicide."

Jane inhaled sharply, and it felt as if his blood had literally turned cold. No, there was no such thing as coincidence—not in a murder or kidnapping investigation. He continued slowly up the walk, his mind whirring at the possible meanings of this development, stalling repeatedly on the one that both made the most sense and generated the greatest shock value. Bertram again matched his stride.

"How?" Jane asked.

"The poor bastard hanged himself."

"Where?"

"Bedroom. And there's a note."

"That says?"

"Don't know yet. It's still in his hand." As they passed through the front doors and into the reception area, Jane looked at him, waiting for his explanation. "Didn't want anyone reading it until you had a chance to see it."

Jane suspected it was closer to the truth that Bertram hadn't wanted to be on his own if any startling discoveries were made but let it rest as the still obviously shaken man continued.

"He hadn't been into work for three days, assistant last heard from him two days ago. She called the security desk this morning and asked them to check his loft." He nodded to the guard that keyed the elevator for them. "Sellars here found him."

Jane turned his attention to the man and asked, "And you left everything as you found it?"

"Yessir. Beat it the hell outta there as soon as I saw 'im. Called the police right after."

"Good . . . That's good," Jane murmured distractedly, his mind churning as he, Bertram and the others stepped onto the elevator, Sellars most decidedly not wishing to accompany them. No one spoke on the ride up.

Jane was familiar with the layout of the place. He had looked up this particular building a few weeks earlier when he had begun toying with the idea of getting a place of his own in the city, drawn to the openness of the space as well as the river view. Of course, had he known Ardiles was a resident he wouldn't even have considered the place. At the sight of the body swinging from the creaking chandelier, The Lofts at River Place were definitely off the list.

The bedroom, like the entry and living room, was well furnished—posh even. Jane was a little surprised at Ardiles' expensive tastes having always believed the man to be rather mundane and pedantic in everything from his intelligence to his wardrobe. But for all the extravagance, the place was utterly bereft of warmth. There wasn't a single photograph or certificate or anything else that anyone would consider personal, nothing that spoke of the identity or the past of its single inhabitant.

Now Jane stood looking up at and over the prosecutor's body. He had been dead for several hours—even a day or two. Nothing looked out of place—or unexpected at least—except for perhaps the full set of clothes laid out neatly on the bed, Jane assumed Ardiles' choice for his funeral. Only the corner of the piece of paper clutched in his hand was visible.

Jane made to remove it but was stilled by Stanton's throat-clearing. The FBI agent stepped around him and, properly gloved, pried the stiffened fingers apart just enough to retrieve the note. He unfolded it and frowned down at the consultant's outstretched hand until Cho slapped a glove into it and Jane grudgingly made use of the thing, took the offered paper and read from it aloud.

"_Forgive me. I was unworthy."_

He looked up at their faces, all of them wearing expressions of mixed confusion and shock. His eyes roamed back over Ardiles' suspended corpse and noticed that his left hand was also clenched into a fist. Given the method of suicide that wasn't really a surprise, but if there was something else they couldn't afford to miss it. He looked at Stanton then back to Ardiles' untouched fist, and the agent followed his line of sight as well as his meaning. He pried the fingers apart, and something dropped to the floor, clinking metallically against the polished hardwood.

Lydia bent to pick it up and looked at it wonderingly. "It's a crucifix. A child's. Like something they'd get as a gift at confirmation or first Communion." She looked back at Jane, automatically expecting an explanation.

"He was raised Catholic. Probably lapsed. It was a final comfort, like what he tried to give to Monica Walsh," he answered quietly.

Jane was studying the crucifix still dangling from her fingers, but the others had turned to look back up at the body, all trace of pity gone from their faces. Ardiles had been one of them. The mole himself? It was hard to fathom, if for no other reason than he wouldn't have had the close and most constant access to the team, their conversations and activities or their case files. They were all quite willing to accept Jane's assertion that he had at least been part of Red John's circle.

"When it came down to it, his loyalties were divided, even in death, one hand reaching out to Red John, the other to the faith of his past. He would play the game and serve to an extent—it's why he came after me so hard during the trial. But when it came to committing murder to show his devotion, he hadn't been able to do it right, only killing Walsh after it was too late to stop, to back out."

"This . . . this is . . .," Bertram fumbled. Jane turned to look at the man's bewildered and ashen face and again felt something close to pity for him.

"I know. It'll be a press nightmare. Let Brenda handle it. One well-turned sound bite, and she'll have them eating out of her hand."

"I . . . I didn't mean that." For the first time in his administrative career, the press was probably the farthest thing from his mind. "It's just . . . And Brenda's out anyway. Vacation for a month. She said it was long overdue."

Jane wouldn't have thought it was possible for Bertram to look even worse, but realization of what he had just said hit him almost immediately. "They were both on your list—LaRoche's list. All of them—O'Laughlin, Ardiles and Brenda Shettrick . . . and me." His expression firmed with resolve. "Jane, I swear to you—"

"I know. I knew at the mall after you started talking about—" He cut off abruptly, his own sudden revelation taking hold.

"You think Brenda's—?" Bertram took a deep breath. "You think she took Lisbon."

Of course, Bertram hadn't been privy to the many discussions on Lisbon's disappearance and kidnapping. With the logistics of the thing—both agents being overcome and their SUV being moved then abandoned before the kidnapper left the scene—they had come to the conclusion that it would have taken at least two people to pull it off. Jane cast a look and unspoken question at Howard Tell who immediately flipped his cell phone open and stepped out of the room.

"She would've needed help," Van Pelt interjected, looking as if she already knew from whom.

"But there was no one else—"

"LaRoche," Cho and Rigsby voiced in unison.

"Wha-? Why would you think—?"

"Any, or as it turns out, all of the people on LaRoche's list could've been the mole. If not one of them, it had to be LaRoche. You and Hightower are out of the running, O'Laughlin and Ardiles are dead. If Brenda's part of it and she needed help that only leaves J.J.," Jane answered, hoping he wouldn't have to waste any more time explaining. Fortunately, it seemed Bertram couldn't handle any more information at the moment.

Tell stepped back into the room. "Had Curry back at the office check on LaRoche. Cell's goin' straight ta voice mail. Called his next-of-kin, brother back east. Said he hadn't heard from 'Jack' in nearly two years except to say he wouldn't be comin' home for their sister's funeral."

"Bertram, we really aren't needed here," Jane said brusquely. If LaRoche and Shettrick had taken Lisbon—and he had no doubt now that was the case—they needed to be back at the CBI digging through anything they could find on the now former head of the PSU. He left the room to head back to their cars, the others following hard after, leaving Bertram on his own to collapse in the room's single chair, head in his hands.


	9. Be Near Me Lord Jesus

9. BE NEAR ME LORD JESUS  
><em>- Away in a Manger<em>

She came to after the small amount of restless sleep the drug allowed her, a slender but strong hand shaking her shoulder. Her eyes opened slowly, bleary from the remains of the heavy narcotic. It must have been hours since LaRoche had been down. Her lips were so dry she could feel them starting to crack, she still hadn't had anything to eat and her hands were tied again.

"Teresa?" The voice was rich and smooth, and she recognized it immediately even though her vision hadn't cleared enough to make out the facial features in the light from the hallway.

"Brenda?" her voice crackled out. "_Could this get any more bizarre?"_ she wondered in dark amusement, wishing she could see Jane's face when he figured it out.

"Let's get you up. Get some food and liquid into you. It wouldn't do for you to leave us before we're ready to have you go."

Shettrick sounded almost concerned for her welfare. If it hadn't been so empty, her stomach would have churned. Lisbon had no choice but to yield as Brenda's arm slipped around her and heaved her up. As her head came off the cot, though sluggish, it felt lighter, her neck exposed. She looked down at the long lock of hair that fell over her shoulder, and when she breathed heavily against it, it fell away from her body and drifted down to the floor. She turned slowly to look back down at the cot and saw long strands of her own hair laying haphazardly around the space her head had occupied only seconds before.

"It's better this way," Brenda assured her comfortingly. "Easier."

Lisbon nodded in shocked acceptance of the situation if not Shettrick's words. She could only guess at how short her hair was now. She had worn it long or at least to her shoulders since she'd left San Francisco. It made her look more serious, more authoritative than the youthful bob she'd worn as a police investigator, as much a part of her "uniform" as boss as her sensible shoes. Cutting it had had nothing to do with ease.

"Where's LaRoche?" she asked turning back to face the redhead.

"Jack's just taking care of a few things." She smiled when she said his name warmly, and Lisbon felt she'd be sick if she ate the meager offerings on the tray Brenda had set on the floor.

Shettrick knelt in front of her, close enough that Lisbon could take in the tall redhead's appearance. She was casually dressed, and Lisbon could smell the just-showered freshness that not only had her momentarily envious but sure it must be early to mid-morning.

"What time is it?" she asked, voice a little less croaky.

"A little after nine. I wanted to give you some time to sleep but didn't want to put off taking care of you any longer." Shettrick sounded like she viewed Lisbon as a guest at her bed and breakfast rather than the prisoner in the basement on a hard cot, hands bound behind her back. She knelt on the floor and lifted a triangle of buttered toast to Lisbon's lips.

"You know, this would be a lot easier if you just untied me," Lisbon managed to snark.

"Well, nothing easy is of any value, Teresa. You should know that," Brenda chided smoothly. "Now . . . open up."

Hating being hand fed by the harpy in front of her but knowing she needed to keep her strength up as much as possible, she yielded. She hadn't missed the gleam of the waiting hypodermic on the tray next to her orange juice.

"So," she said, still seeking information as well as understanding. "—you and 'Jack'."

Brenda paused only for an instant as she brought the glass to Lisbon's lips then resumed with a smile.

"Don't be misled by appearances, Teresa. I know he may not be most girls' idea of Prince Charming, but you have no idea how warm and generous he can be."

"Yeah, I got that. When he hit me over the head and threw me in the trunk."

"Well, you weren't going to make it easy." She picked up the cloth napkin on the tray and shook it out daintily before dabbing Lisbon's lips with it then exchanging it for the needle. She uncapped the hypo, pushed a little of the liquid out its tip and turned back to her captive with another calm smile.

"And besides," Lisbon felt the sting and pressure, "that was me."

She withdrew the needle and gathered everything together on the tray, stood gracefully and exited the room. Only then did Lisbon bow her head and allow the tears to fall, knowing what was coming. The loud, violent music came on at full volume and the light flared. The photographs had been changed. Now there were crime scenes, mostly Red John and his associates. Children and women, their bodies ravaged, were displayed along with dead police officers, many of whom she had known personally. LaRoche had been right when he said timing was everything, and she felt that hers was running out. Even worse, she'd been able to discern what they planned—to kill her just before the others got to her, probably only to find her body still warm, and possibly finally breaking the bond that had held them together over the years. Her real concern, however, was for one amongst the others.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death . . . And dear God, please protect Jane . . ."

The bloodied faces above her contorted as the bloody smile undulated above her. Then the white cut across her thoughts again and all awareness of reality faded.

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They had gone through everything—Brenda Shettrick's home and office as well as LaRoche's—and found nothing to indicate where they may have taken her. Financials, phone and e-mail records gave no indication that the two even knew each other outside of work. The team had begun the arduous task of combing through Gupta's and Todd Johnson's personal information as well, hoping there might be something helpful found. As research was not Jane's preference, he adjourned to Lisbon's office as was now his habit for quiet to think and try desperately to piece together an answer.

He lay down on the couch and turned his head into the pillow, surprised that her scent—though diminished—still lingered. He closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. _Has it only been two days?_ Time seemed to have slowed down and be rushing madly on simultaneously. He pulled the blanket up over his chest and stared up at Lisbon's ceiling. His eyes moved slowly back and forth as if he were following words on a page, cataloging everything they had found out so far. It all fit together and made sense, as far as it went, but he simply couldn't come up with a hiding place, not even a direction, except to discount the north since that's where the decoy had gone. They could have Lisbon out of the state by now, maybe even out of the country. And his frustration was only compounded by the same feeling he'd had days earlier, that there was something there he just couldn't see.

He closed his eyes again, this time tightly, and raised his hands to rub against the sting and dampness in them then dropped them back heavily to his chest. She was getting farther away. He could feel it, like he felt the fabric of the cover clutched in his fists. He closed his eyes again, thought of her sitting at the desk, imagined the sound of her scribbling as she wrote her signature on page after page of forms, her exasperated sigh directed at him when she had to initial a report his behavior had generated.

"_Where are you?"_ he thought sorrowfully and drifted into a restless sleep.

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He dreamt of Angela standing in a kitchen that was theirs but not the one at the Malibu house. He had never seen this kitchen before. She stood far away from him looking at the ocean that wasn't really outside of this kitchen wherever it was. There was a buzzing noise that grew louder and clearer, and he turned to see Charlotte squatting in a corner, hands held tight over her ears as she screamed, terrified and unceasing. He wanted to get away, but without the hand on his shoulder to pull him free he couldn't escape. He eventually did manage to turn away from them and was relieved to find himself standing just outside Lisbon's office door. Certain he would find her within, he reached out to take hold of the handle and pulled, but it shape-shifted into a brushed chrome knob in his hand and the door opened in.

The room was empty and gray, and he knew immediately where he was. He reluctantly turned to look at the opposite wall to see the familiar smiley leering at him triumphantly. Below it, on a bedraggled mattress, Lisbon lay eviscerated, her eyes staring sightlessly. Unable to move to her, he could only watch in growing horror as her arm raised, unnaturally long, and her hand slowly traced the bloodstain in a near lover's caress. The room was suddenly filled with her scent, and he jerked awake to find his face pushed sideways and into the pillow, his back arched in an attempt to physically pull away from what he had witnessed.

He sat up slowly and swung his legs over the side of the couch to plant his feet on the floor, glad the darkness of the room shielded him from view of the others sitting in the bullpen where overhead lights now glared against the dark. Something tugged at his mind, elusive and taunting, caught in a swirl of regret and guilt that someone else so dear to him was suffering because of him. He pulled himself upright, his mind going back again to that most recent Valentine's evening and Lisbon yelling at him for getting lost in his head with every Red John case.

_Then__, we spend the next several days watching you. Worrying about you. Waiting on you with our collective __heads__ up your __ass__ while you fall apart! I don't know about you, Jane, but I've __never__ caught a criminal that way!_

She'd said a lot of things that night that made him angry and that he had to ultimately admit made sense.

_You think he hasn't been back in this house? You think he hasn't seen that pathetic mattress where you lie under the reminder of his triumph over you? The reminder of your failure? Or what you see as your failure?_

He rubbed both hands back through his hair then forward and down his face. If he didn't get Lisbon back in time the bloody smile would come to represent another failure, one he didn't know if he would . . .

The click in his mind was almost audible. Could it be that simple? He threw the blanket off and made his way to where Grace was still working, moving with such purpose that the others turned to him reflexively as he entered the room, even Lydia rousing from where she'd fallen asleep on the brown couch.

"Grace, what was the location on the transmitter?"

"On E13, halfway between Walnut Grove and I-5."

"And where did we find the SUV?"

"It was . . .," she checked her computer, "about eight miles south and west, on Andrus Island Road."

"How close is that to the I-5?"

"I'd say at least 10 miles to get back to where they exited. Probably a little over."

"No. The closest interchange. What's the shortest distance they'd have to drive to get on the I-5?"

"That'd be . . . at J12 . . . only about six miles away."

He smiled for the first time in over two days. "I know where she is."

They would save their questions for the road. A flurry of jackets and weapon checks, and they were gone.

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She was coming around again but like the last time was unable to shake off the residual of whatever hallucinogenic they were giving her. Her head was pounding, and she knew she needed more fluids—the orange juice from her breakfast hadn't been enough. She figured the more prominent effects of each dose of the drug they were giving her lasted anywhere from eight to ten hours. That would put the time at somewhere between five and seven, the latter if her stomach was anything to go by. Somewhere nearby, probably at the top of the steps that led down to her basement cell, Shettrick's high voice was slightly raised, questioning, tinged with worry, and LaRoche's mumbled baritone answered back. Apparently something wasn't going according to plan. If she sat very still she could hear snatches of their conversation.

" . . . may not be time . . ."

"What if we . . ."

" . . . no need . . . dead end . . . "

She knew it may only be wishful thinking, but she hoped for the possibility that the glitch meant Jane and the team had somehow managed to throw a wrench into things. The voices stopped, and she heard two sets of footsteps, one light and feminine, the other heavier, slower and labored. She had hoped Shettrick would come alone again. For many reasons, she did not feel like facing LaRoche.

"Ah. Teresa. You're up. Good."

"Something th'matter, Brenda?" she slurred, ignoring LaRoche's presence.

"What? . . . Oh, . . . no. Nothing for you to worry about. We just may be moving out a little sooner than we expected. But don't be concerned. Look. I brought you some soup. I hope you like tomato."

"Tomato's fine, Brenda. It's the sides I could do without."

Shettrick looked at her, and Lisbon nodded archly toward the tray where yet another needle lay. The former media liaison only smiled back at her blandly as LaRoche interrupted them.

"A necessary evil, Teresa," he said brusquely, dropping all pretense of friendliness. He cut the ropes that held her aching arms behind her, and she wondered at his taking such a chance then realized she had little strength or control in any of her limbs. LaRoche took hold of her upper arms and dragged her up off the cot and over to the commode then turned his back and left her to Shettrick's frowning care. After a few clumsy attempts, they finished the business and Lisbon was dragged back to the cot. Brenda took up the laborious task of feeding her the soup, but there was only so much she could tolerate. Focused on trying to eat, Lisbon was silent until the cap came off of the needle.

"Please, Brenda. You don't have to do that." Lisbon forced herself not to scowl at her own friendly and conciliatory tone. It was necessary to reinforce the memory and feeling of the sense of friendship in which they had seemed to engage over the years. "You saw how weak I am, and I can hear you sliding two deadbolts on the outside of that steel door every time you leave."

"This is the plan, Teresa, and it wouldn't do to deviate. But don't worry, it won't be for much longer."

She said it as she meant for it to be a comfort. Lisbon tried to draw her arm away and began to whimper, stilling herself resolutely at the sound of LaRoche's pleased chuckle. Brenda patted her on the shoulder in encouragement before she grasped the tray and straightened, LaRoche's arm sliding around her as they left the room without looking back.

The pictures this time were of Jane's wife and daughter, some of them smiling with something red streaked across the glossy paper; others of them hacked and bloody, their arms arranged around one another in a mock embrace. The drug felt stronger this time, the effects coming on much harder and much faster. She had the feeling she was falling and laid down on the cot gripping the metal side rods to steady herself. This time there was no prayer, no time for meditation . . . only the sudden terror that this must be the end before the blinding light pierced her mind's eye, and Red John's smile danced with Angela Jane.


	10. And Death's Dark Shadows Put to Flight

10. AND DEATH'S DARK SHADOWS PUT TO FLIGHT  
><em>- O Come, O Come Emmanuel<em>

Despite Bertram's desperate pleadings, the powers that be refused to bear the expense of helicopters to transport so many of them south to Malibu. He had instead called on every local law enforcement agency in Sacramento and south to clear the interstate, and with sirens blaring they had made good time, arriving in the very early morning hours. Storm clouds swirled in the dark pre-dawn sky, and Jane hoped they weren't a harbinger of things to come. Wyatt Stanton took hold of his wife's hand and looked at her uncertainly.

"She's my friend, Wyatt," she said evenly. "I've come this far. I won't be left behind." He squeezed her hand then kissed it, assuring her he understood and he would keep her safe and at his side.

The near dozen vehicles pulled to a halt in front of the neglected drive, and Jane sprang out of the door and stumbled into a dead run. In spite of his determination and early lead, Rigsby passed him, barely pausing before his foot landed full force, splintering the door frame, shattering lock and plate away from the wood. Van Pelt pulled out of a headlong sprint entering just behind him, her weapon snapping up and swiveling back and forth in a wide arc under her flashlight. Cho issued orders over the comm, directing the agents and officers as they swarmed down the stairs to the lower level and fanned out through the main floor.

Jane ascended the stairs, only the team and Wyatt and Lydia Stanton following to clear the side bedrooms as Jane moved to the end of the hall. Certain of where he would find her, Jane burst through the last door with such force it slammed back against the wall fully revealing its only contents, bloody smile and flattened single mattress. It was obvious the room had not been disturbed since the last time he had been there months before, and then only by his and Lisbon's presence for a few seconds.

"She's not here," he whispered raggedly, another hope spent.

"Jane?" Rigsby questioned uneasily, snapping his mind to the immediate reality that no one but Lisbon knew about this room and its perpetual state for the past eight years.

"She should be here," he said to them over his shoulder, motioning at the room at large. "There is nowhere else—"

The shock of their faces and their inability to see past what they were actually _seeing_ made the room feel small, and for the first time he felt the cloying closeness that surely must affect every outsider upon their first glimpse of it. If they didn't know he was crazy before, they certainly knew it now.

In frustration and fear and embarrassment, he pushed past them and flew lightly down the stairs, heading for the deck and fresh air. He fumbled with the lock and finally pushed the slider open and stumbled outside, gulping in great breaths. He heard movement in the house behind him and Van Pelt's faint call, and their impending presence pushed him down the steps and to the gazebo that overlooked the Pacific's waves. He turned to the south, his eyes straining against the moonlit darkness. Seeing just enough to tell that the beach was smooth and wave-washed, he turned to the north.

Two houses up, jutting out from the cliff face was a monstrosity of a house that had been built in short order the year after the Jane's had taken up residence. Angela had groused about it for weeks before deciding to never look in its direction. She would step out onto the deck, her eyes resolutely on the ocean or the southern view. The few times he had hosted clients at the house, he would bring them down to the gazebo, the rhythm of the waves adding to the hypnotic effect of his voice. He was always careful to place his paying visitors facing away from that house, the gleam of steel and the arrogance of its protrusion instead of the quiet nestling more common of the homes surrounding it making it a visual distraction.

Lisbon's voice from their February confrontation came back to him.

_He'd been watching them for days, maybe even weeks. He knew your security set-up and how to disable it. He knew where they would be. He knew where __you__ would be and how long you would be gone. He'd found someone worthy of the game, and he wanted to make sure you stuck with it. He'd decided to kill them long before that night. Hell, if you'd broken with the CBI the day before that interview, he would've killed them to get you back. He only chose that night because he knew what it would do to you, that it would tighten the screws just a bit more, drive the blade a little deeper._

And suddenly he remembered.

That house had been part of the estate of its financially rising owner who had died the year after its construction. The estranged wife had moved back east years earlier to live with her family, taking their two children with her. In the wake of his death, none of them wanted the eyesore, and the place had been perpetually for sale as well as perpetually rented so the estate could at least make some profit from it. Two days before his family was killed, Angela had taken Charlotte to a birthday party and—knowing he had the house to himself for a few hours—he'd invited a client. He had done a reading, his eyes half closed, watching her for reactions to his guessings. It was the usual, wanting to get in touch with a dead parent, looking for closure. He'd done this a thousand times, and his mind had wandered to the awful house up the beach. There had been a woman . . . arms crossed, hugging herself defensively. She was tall with red curling hair that blew around her face. Her features weren't clear at that distance, but something was troubling her because she didn't try to tame the errant strands, just stood staring out to sea, her shoulders hunched under some unseen burden. Ever on the lookout for a well-to-do mark, he had wondered if she might not want some help, some comfort . . .

Brenda Shettrick.

Lisbon had been right all those months before. Red John had been watching. And he had been watching from that house.

He turned and barreled back through the living room, agents and friends who had moved toward the deck looking for him turning abruptly at his passing, his team and Wyatt Stanton first to realize that they should follow him. He pushed through the front door then cut across the small bit of sand and vegetation that passed for front yard to the road, his shoes slapping against the rough pavement. His respirations sounded loudly in his ears. He felt the rising panic, and all he knew was that he had to be in time. The front door was open, and he rushed straight in, unwilling to wait even for his own safety's sake. For just an instant, accustomed as he was to the sparseness of his own house, the opulence stunned him. Then something dark and heavy settled over him, cloaking him with dread.

He was certain this is where LaRoche had taken Lisbon—as certain as he was of the color of his own eyes. And he was just as positive there wasn't a living soul in the house. The others had caught up, and once again, officers and agents swarmed in, their shouts of "Clear!" proclaiming the place empty. He stood stock still in the living room waiting for the dread news. Cho had headed straight for the walk-out basement, and Jane wasn't surprised to hear his call.

"Jane!" It was too strong, too forceful. He closed his eyes in relief knowing what Cho _hadn't_ found. Rigsby and Van Pelt approached him from kitchen and den respectively, the former holstering his weapon, Grace holding hers relaxed down at her side and both of them looking past him toward the stairwell. Jane turned slowly, his eyes going immediately to Cho's outstretched hands.

"Is that—" Rigsby breathed in uncertain horror.

"It is," Cho confirmed grimly and without hesitation.

"That bastard," Grace spat.

Jane reached out in slow motion, as if he were in shock, to touch the long dark chestnut strands Cho reverently carried. His movements stilled just before his fingers made contact, and he watched in fascination as the curls seemed to lift away from the agent's hands toward his outstretched one. _Air. Moving air. A cross current. An open door._

Jane turned suddenly and lunged toward the glass slider that stood slightly ajar, slammed it back and stepped out onto the deck. It was like the fore of a ship, jutting out to a point. Someone flipped on an outside light, and as his searching gaze swept from left to right, an errant lock matching Cho's find swept and curled along the fabricated wood slats. Looking beyond it, he saw that the deck wrapped around the north side of the house, and he headed for where it turned out of sight, sweeping down to scoop up the silken strand and winding it around his fingers before sliding it into his vest pocket.

He rounded the corner where the deck narrowed into a walkway separating the house from the cliff that rose above and abutted against it, pausing in surprise a moment before rushing forward to the body that lay a few yards in front of him. Brenda Shettrick was on her side, facing away from him, her hands outstretched and her body twitching in the final throes. Jane knelt by her side, but she did not notice him, her tortured eyes straining after her reaching hands.

"Jack," she whispered once plaintively before thunder clapped overhead and her breath rattled out and she collapsed dead, a thick bloody pool at her side.

Jane followed her line of sight to an opening in the deck railing, a threshold to a hewn path that curved up and away from the house. Jane knew where it led. There was a path that joined this one that led away from the road. He had walked it several times with Charlotte at her pleading and had extricated from her in exchange the promise that she would never attempt it alone. She would hold his hand tightly against fear of falling on the rough surface of the path and nature's onslaught as they neared the promontory. It was the highest point on the beach for miles, dividing this strand of residences from the next one up, and there was no shelter from the elements.

A bolt of lightning lit the remnant of night sky and seemed to dance along a ridge further up the beach, and Jane turned suddenly to the forces behind him.

"I need to go alone."

He raised his hands against their arguments.

"The path narrows near the top—it's rocky and uneven. Besides getting past me, there's only one way he can go. We can't run the risk of spooking him."

In spite of the fact that none of them liked it, they all knew it was true. Stanton nodded to him in agreement, but it was to the team he looked for final confirmation of his plan. The relaxing of Rigsby's shoulders, the look of resignation on Cho's face and Grace's quietly urgent "Go!" sent him scurrying up the walk.

They were only a moment ahead of him. _LaRoche must have heard us on the road._ Jane could hear a hum that became a low rumble then turned into distinguishable fragments of a running monologue as he drew within sight of them. "Few more steps . . . That's it . . . doing well," LaRoche quietly coached, encouraging Lisbon to her death.

Jane didn't care about LaRoche beyond stopping him, and he knew no amount of arguments could convince him away from his chosen course, so he directed his attention to the woman dragging along at the big man's side.

"Lisbon!" he called out as if he were trying to catch up with her in the CBI hallway. Her steps faltered, and she nearly fell. LaRoche caught her and tried to pull her along, but she dug her heels in and struggled to pull back from him.

"Jane?" her weak voice wafted back to him on the wind.

"Lisbon, stop!"

She pulled away more forcibly but not enough to break LaRoche's hold on her. She finally let her legs collapse completely, slumping into deadweight at his side. Intent on maintaining his forward movement, he dipped and caught her around the waist and dragged her. She continued to grapple with him, but her movements were sluggish and vague as to target. Jane wondered what he had used to drug her.

"Lisbon!" If nothing else, she would know someone had come for her. She turned her head away from LaRoche's body and, opening her mouth wide, bit down as hard as she could. Jane knew that even through the thickness of his shirt and suitcoat there would be enough pressure for the sensitive skin of his inner upper arm to feel the pinch. On the heels of that thought, LaRoche howled and shook Lisbon like a ragdoll and suddenly turned about. In a flurry of clumsy movement, he brought her up until she was half standing, half leaning against him. His left arm spanned her chest from one underarm to the other, and with his right hand he drew a SIG Sauer from the holster at his belt, pointing its barrel at her head.

"Don't come any closer," he warned.

Jane raised his hands in a gesture of acquiescence, and LaRoche backed Lisbon further up the walk toward the point. He took two steps, and Jane began to advance.

"I said to come no further," LaRoche snarled.

"You said to come no _closer_," Jane answered, hands still raised. With his left he gestured to the space between them. "I'm no nearer than I was."

LaRoche pinched his lips together in annoyance and pushed the gun barrel more firmly against Lisbon's temple, wiggling it in place. Jane nodded, indicating he took the warning seriously, and they resumed their match-step up the incline. Jane's eyes dropped to Lisbon's, and her gaze, haunted and glazed, unnerved him. He smiled, small and soft, hoping she could see the encouragement. The smile faded when her eyes went blank and her head dropped forward even as her legs went limp again, forcing LaRoche to shift his grip and heave her up once more. Beyond the struggling pair, the sun's first light glowed on the horizon, turning the black sky to a churning gray in the approaching storm.

He had walked that path many times with his little girl, and he knew it ended abruptly then pitched over seventy feet straight down to pounding surf and punishing rocks. The walk was black and dew-slickened now, and the wind whipped about them, exposed as they now were. Jane hoped LaRoche was as sure of his footing as he was of his purpose.

"Mind your step!" Jane called out in warning. Though LaRoche was unwilling to heed anything Jane might say, in reflex he turned to look over his shoulder just in time to see he was merely inches from the precipice.

"That's it!" he hollered over the increasing wind. "No further! Do as I say or Teresa will have to die!"

Jane's rage spiked at the familiarity of the use of her Christian name, and he fought the urge to charge ahead, to lay hold of LaRoche with his bare hands. A few cool droplets began to fall, dotting his hair, his face, his clothes, and calmer thought repossessed him. The scant sprinkling stopped as suddenly as it had begun as if the rain refused to fall, waiting for more than the whirling wind and rumbling thunder to call it out. What weak light the coming sunrise offered was blotted out by the continually massing clouds, but as if to make up the deficit, lightning cut across the sky and down to touch the beach farther north. In the flash, Jane got a clear look at Red John's last man's face. The shifting of the eyes—more pronounced than Jane had ever seen it—combined with the desperation-thinned lips and sickened pallor gave proof that LaRoche had never truly considered the very real possibility that he would have to die in the cause for his idol. Playing on that hesitation, Jane attempted to reason with him, forced to shout at him to be heard over the increasing wind.

"There's nowhere left to go LaRoche. Only one way for you to get out of this alive."

"I think you'll find, Patrick, that this can all end in one of two ways," J.J. countered.

"You've got to give up. Bring Lisbon away from the edge, and turn yourself over to the CBI."

"Or," LaRoche sneered, not yet willing to concede the game, "I'll just toss her over the side _then_ turn myself in. There are a lot of witnesses here, Patrick. No one would take kindly to vigilante justice a second time."

Jane winced at the coldness in his voice as well as the certainty that LaRoche was willing to do just as he said. His eyes drifted back to Lisbon where she hung boneless over LaRoche's beefy forearm. There was little he would be able to do for her if she couldn't fight for herself.

"But this isn't exactly like that other time, is it, Patrick?" LaRoche continued. "You don't have a gun. No shooting a man down in cold blood, three bullets, blasting the heart and breath out of him. But then the gun wasn't really your weapon of choice, was it? I'll bet you don't even have a blade on you." LaRoche tsked at him. "So ill prepared. That's not like you at all. Oh, I know. You thought you would be able to outsmart me, outthink me. Bring your verbal mastery to bear."

Jane could feel his resolve fading. He had honestly believed he could save her, protect her from this. But now they had come to the sticking point, and as always, Red John—or what was left of his "book club"—had managed to stay one step ahead.

"What would that do to you, do you think, Patrick?" LaRoche taunted him. "To lose another woman you cared for? Another sacrifice to your arrogance?"

LaRoche raised his voice to be heard over the increasing volume of the gale, and Jane watched him intently, trying to fight the sense of hopelessness that washed over him.

"Could you bear having the last thing that means anything to you ripped away, lost to you forever?"

Both men knew it was a rhetorical question. Jane's breathing evened to rhythmic, shallow pants, and he felt himself falling, giving in to what his breaking heart was fast believing to be inevitable. The lightning flared again, and LaRoche's look of triumph sickened him. If Lisbon didn't survive, no matter what happened to him physically, Jane knew he wouldn't make it either.

_Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death._

"LaRoche, . . . _please_."

"What was that, Patrick? Please, you say?" LaRoche was outright making sport of him now, his sick grin twisting his features. "My, my, my," he continued, the grin morphing into a sneer. "How the mighty Patrick Jane has fallen. Begging now, are we?"

"If that's what you want." He shouted over the howling tempest, the effort sapping his strength. "It's me you want to end. Me you want to destroy. Please. Let her go and take me."

"Take you? _Take you?_ You sorry piece of filth. What would I want with you? You're nearly finished. And when she's gone, there'll be nothing of you left."

Knowing it was true and not caring, the lunatic thought crossed Jane's mind that if he were to simply lunge ahead, straight at and over the cliff, maybe this last player would relent. If the game piece was no longer on the board, surely the contest would be over.

_In the name of the Father . . ._

His panting had ceased, and each deep breath was coming out now on its own whispered sob, the unreleased tension of the waiting air around him matching the build within him.

_The Son . . . Oh, Holy Spirit._

Heaven was closed, and he would have railed against it, too mean and stingy to even give rain to the tragedy unfolding beneath it. _If only Lisbon could pray . . . Oh God, if you're there_. . .

"Drop it."

Both men turned, searching in the dark for the voice that had spoken, Jane subsuming the fear that if he broke visual contact with Lisbon he might lose her. A barrage of lightning assaulted the earth, and Van Pelt stood in its glow, her hair blowing about her in a fury of red, the spark in her eyes cold as the weapon she held unflinchingly pointed at LaRoche's head.

"I said drop it, LaRoche."

They stood in seeming stalemate, but another volley of electrical bolts showed the flutter of uncertainty on the villain's face and humorless, confident quirk at the corner of the agent's mouth.

"Or you'll what?" His voice dripped with contempt in an effort to regain control.

More agents appeared on the path behind them (Jane was certain Rigsby and Cho among them), their high-powered flashlights raised, taking in the scene and knowing better than to rush forward. Grace, it seemed, was not so inclined to caution. Already, she was tired of dealing with LaRoche, and she directed her conversation to the woman hanging at the front of his body.

"Boss?" she shouted. "Lisbon!" No answer. "**Teresa!**"

Jane turned back to Lisbon, afraid to breathe as he felt them all teetering on the knife's edge. The commanding steel of Van Pelt's voice cut through the rush of sound, and Jane's tensed shoulders sagged in relief when Lisbon raised her head. The clouded look from earlier suddenly cleared, and she locked eyes with Van Pelt. Jane couldn't help following her gaze to the other woman, and he was mesmerized by the energy that seemed to pass between them. Grace's face was a study in quietude, her breathing even and light. She looked for the world as if she were giving a report and waiting for her boss to respond. And looking back at Lisbon, it seemed to Jane that that's how her boss perceived it as well. Lisbon was fully alert now, and Jane caught the barest flicker in her expression. Something he didn't like passed through her eyes, and his own gaze jerked back to Van Pelt to see an answering glint. It all happened in barely more than a second, but before he could shout out his dissension against the terrible and—as he saw it—needless and foolish decision the two had made in silent collusion, Lisbon's head dropped to her left, Van Pelt's shot rang out and red blossomed on LaRoche's shoulder.

His hand went claw-like in pain and uselessness, the SIG clattered to the stone walk, and he stared at it in confusion as if it had betrayed him. His grip on Lisbon loosened as he staggered back, pulling only her upper body back until he could no longer maintain his grasp. He felt himself falling, and his feet scrabbled momentarily, trying to find purchase on the wet rock. Lisbon made to lean away from him, and Jane, seeing she was unable to step away under her own power, rushed toward her. In the last instant, before he could take hold of her, her head shot up and eyes stared, shocked and terrified into the growing glare of the emergency lights. LaRoche had taken hold of her jacket, and as he fell over the edge Lisbon—jerked off her feet, arms thrown out and up—followed after. Jane shouted into the dark, and the heavens opened.

It all happened in the same horror-filled slow motion of Jane's nightmares, and as Lisbon went over the edge, Jane felt himself pulled forward as though that invisible and now unbreakable cord that ran between them would pull him over after her. A strong arm went around him from behind, the hand catching at his waist, and he caught the faint scent of lavender mixed with vanilla.

"I've got you," Grace said, her voice secure and solid in his ear. The lights glared against them from behind and loomed out into the air above the cliff, useless for his searching purpose. He looked down into the black of hurling rain and darkness, and hopelessness rose up again, choking him, turning into resentment at the woman who kept hold on him, keeping him in place. What he wanted was Lisbon, and he felt himself still listing toward the edge, peering after her. Van Pelt had moved forward and tucked him into her side, her own scrutiny mirroring his.

As if it were mocking him, the rain let up again, softening to a light mist, and the wind calmed around him. From the grave, Red John had won. Lisbon was gone, and he was done.

Rigsby and Cho rushed forward, their lights tiny spots of illumination along the sheer stone of the cliff space. The rain finally ceased altogether, and the wind began to toss and move the now empty clouds.

"There."

Van Pelt's voice was still quiet, but the note of excitement lightened it to sound something like her old self, drawing the men's eyes down to where she pointed. Below them, on an outcropping some twenty feet down lay Lisbon, obviously unconsciousness, her left arm bent beneath her. On the rocks at the cliff's base, waves washed over the large dot that was all that was left of LaRoche, buffeting his body, taking hold of him and finally pulling him into the depths. Suddenly Jane was moving, trying to get over the edge, trying to get to Lisbon. The other two men joined their strength with Grace's, holding him back.

"Jane! Stop!" Rigsby warned.

"Let the EMT's get her," Cho's voice, low and steady, close to his ear stilled his frantic movements. Paramedics were already moving down the side along an indentation in the stone face that slanted in a gentle decline, taking advantage of the lull in the storm. Huddled together, the four of them watched as Lisbon was checked for injuries. Miraculously, the fracture to her left wrist was the only injury to her body detected, but her head lolled with no response to the repeated attempts to rouse her. The emergency medical team got her on the light stretcher and secured her neck before bringing her back up via the hastily engineered ropes additional personnel secured at the rise. When EMT's and Lisbon reached the top, the team followed close behind as the cloister made its way to where the ambulance was parked on the road.

"Sorry—no room! Headed for Good Samaritan!"

The vehicle's doors closed in their faces, and the ambulance pulled away racing up the coast road to the nearest highway. Jane turned, intending to head for the SUV when it suddenly came barreling up beside them. Wyatt Stanton rolled out of the driver's seat and motioned the team inside, his deep voice booming at them.

"Go! I'll take care of the scene! . . . _Go!_"

Piling in, they chased after Lisbon, grateful that the storm had finally cleared.

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They had huddled together waiting for the doctor's prognosis, all of them soaked to the skin and chilled beyond. Knowing the seriousness of her situation, the emergency resident had taken immediate precautions, ordering blood work and CT scan and talking possibilities while he awaited the results. Multiple bruises and lacerations, subdural hematoma which might require emergency surgery to relieve pressure, infection from a wound in her shoulder, antibiotic IV—it went on and on.

Jane wanted to scream.

He wanted to know if she would live, if she would know them, if she could still be a cop. He wanted to know why the hell the doctor wasn't in there doing something about it. Just as he was about to ask, Van Pelt's hand gently squeezed his forearm.

"Thank you, doctor," she said with a gracious smile. He took it as his cue to leave, that they couldn't absorb anymore and that it was all right to go back to doing what he did best. Then she led Jane to a chair.

"You stay here. I'll round up some dry clothes, see if I can't find some hot tea. You with me, Jane?"

He nodded in the affirmative, but she didn't look too assured.

"Yes, Grace." He looked up at her gratefully. "I'm wet and cold and worried, and I don't know what I'll do if this doesn't—if she doesn't . . ." He stilled, closed his eyes, swallowed then looked back up at her calmly.

"I'm fine. I'll be here . . . waiting."

Knowing how very hard that would be for him, she gave him a small smile of encouragement before rising to turn and walk away. A look at Rigsby had him following her to give whatever aid she might need. Cho slid into the seat next to Jane and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

"You gonna give me a pep talk?"

"Nope."

"You're not going to tell me everything's going to be okay?"

"Nope."

"How she's a fighter and strong?"

"Nope."

"How it would take more than a little fall off a cliff to do her in?"

"Nope."

" . . . Thanks."

Cho twisted to peer at Jane over his shoulder. "For what?"

"Making me feel better," he answered with a sad attempt at a grin.

"Yeah," Cho grunted, turning back to rest his head in his hands again. "Same here."

They waited in silence, and when Van Pelt and Rigsby returned, they joined them in it. Stanton arrived an hour later to take their statements, Lydia in tow. Finished with the interviews and promised a call the moment there was news, the couple left so Wyatt could call Bertram and Wainwright. A few minutes later, the doctor stepped into the waiting room and looked into four intensely questioning gazes.

"It's good news," he said at once. "Her left wrist is fractured, and we've immobilized it. There's no injury to the head, amazingly enough, not even a concussion. She's been heavily drugged with a strong hallucinogenic, probably over a period of days. It will take a few hours for that to wash completely out of her system. She'll sleep through the night if not disturbed-" At that he looked at Jane pointedly, "and we can release her in a couple of days. For now we're getting her set up in a private room. The nurse will come and get you when you can go in."

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He had told Grace repeatedly he was all right, practically had to swear on a stack of Bibles before she would take Rigsby and get him something to eat. Cho had followed after, leaving him to sit with her alone for a while. In spite of those assurances, he wasn't all right, wouldn't be until she opened her eyes. But he knew that wouldn't happen for a few hours at least, wouldn't even be good for her. Still, he couldn't help the wishing.

He looked down at the hand not resting alongside hers, and his thumb rubbed over the gold cross he held there, the chain wrapped around his fingers. A nurse had given it to him for safe keeping. Didn't she know how ridiculous that was?

"Don't."

Cho's voice cut across the room at him as he and Rigsby and Van Pelt reentered the room.

"What?" His own voice was thick and gritty. If he hadn't felt his mouth move, his vocal cords work, he would have thought the sound had come from someone else.

"Don't feel guilty. This isn't your fault. Don't make this about you. There was no way any of us could have stopped this."

He nodded at the sense of it, the practicality of leaving off guilt. Trouble was, he was so used to it.

_Equal parts self-love and self-loathing._

Cho was right, of course. Nothing could have prepared them for this. He didn't have the strength to explain that while he comprehended he couldn't quite agree, instead letting his eyes drift back to the still face, perfectly composed, no furrow, no glare, no dimple.

He sensed the bulk behind and around him, and a hand reached into his line of vision, engulfing the motionless one lying on the bed. Large fingers encircled small, fragile ones, thumb stroking over knuckles.

"She'll be all right. Boss is a fighter," Rigsby crooned. Boss. It was the closest anyone had come to naming her. Like the woman in the bed wasn't Lisbon until she woke up.

If she only would. Wake up and make some sarcastic comment. _"Why the hell are you all standing around here? Don't you have work to do?" _Wake up and nag, wake up and snark. Anything. Wake up and yell at me. Be mad at me.

_Can't you see there's people who care about you—who need you?"_

They stood, sat, milled around the room for a couple more hours, not knowing what to do, not wanting to leave. They all knew it wasn't right to just walk away from her, like walking out on her. But there was only so much they could do. Only so much coffee they could drink. They would have to go in to work tomorrow. Someone else would get angry, greedy, lustful, vengeful, fearful, envious, arrogant. Someone else would kill, and they would be needed, and they needed to go.

Cho moved to her bedside, across from Jane, and leaned over her. His hand slid around hers, and though his hand was not so large as Rigsby's, it still swallowed her tiny, unmoving one.

"Hey."

Jane looked away from Cho and down at where Rigsby squatted next to him.

"You need anything before we go?"

He shook his head, mind nearly numbed with weariness, unable to think of anything he might ask that they could give. Rigsby continued talking, his voice low and calm, quietly rumbling like a gentle tide.

"She'll be all right. She'll wake up, and you'll be okay. We'll all be okay."

Jane looked from Rigsby's mesmerizing stare down to where two meaty fingers tapped the outside of his own knee, a mock hypnotic trigger. Abruptly, his eyes shot back up to see Rigsby's alight with amusement, his lips pursed against a grin, and Jane couldn't keep his eyes from smiling back. The bigger man's leonine paw slid across Jane's knee and squeezed once before he effortlessly lifted his mass and walked around the bed toward the door, his hand trailing along the bed's edge the whole way until Cho turned and the two exited together, leaving Grace alone with them.

"See you later?" she asked hopefully.

"Definitely," he assured her.

"You know . . .," she began hesitantly. "They say they can hear sometimes when they're like this." Jane looked at her dubiously. "You should talk to her," she encouraged. He shrugged at her, and she smiled back before she left the room, confident he would follow her advice.

His hand ghosted across the blanket then paused, hovering over hers. Sliding two inches further, he let his fingers wrap lightly around her tiny wrist, their tips resting against her pulse's steady thrumming, and wondered at the strength there, the near supernatural things he had seen those hands, those small bones, this tiny frame accomplish.

Jane knew what Grace had been hinting at. He had wanted to talk to Lisbon for quite a while, weeks even, since he'd come out of the hospital after his fall on Thanksgiving Day. He remembered the things he'd said to Lisbon, and though he was injured and heavily sedated he had meant every word. But she had acted like nothing had happened. He had been shocked to comprehend during their confrontation on the mountainside that her feelings for him ran just as deeply, just as strong has his did for her, and they could have come to terms with the whole thing together except that she didn't seem to want to. By the time he realized she was only behaving as she was because she thought he didn't remember what he'd said, Red John's friends had started on their killing spree, and he hadn't wanted to tell her, to start a relationship with her in the middle of all that. Thing was, he didn't want to make his first profession sans drugs, to a sleeping Lisbon. But he couldn't just _sit_ there and do nothing. He scooted the chair closer so he could whisper into her ear.

"Did you know that there are between two hundred and four hundred _billion_ stars in the Milky Way? And that the oldest is guessed to be about 13.2 billion years old? Of course, I don't know how they would actually _know _that. I mean . . . _point 2?_ . . ."


	11. Strike the Harp and Join the Chorus

11. STRIKE THE HARP AND JOIN THE CHORUS  
><em>- Deck the Halls<em>

Lisbon had nearly slept the clock around. Then, as was his luck where she was concerned, she had awakened when a nurse was in the room. The battleax had summoned the doctor and ordered Jane out to the hall. There had been a flurry of tests and examinations, and Jane had managed to catch the doctor's attention long enough to convince him his patient would rest better closer to home. An ambulance was arranged to drive her up, and at the doctor's flat refusal to allow him to ride with her, Jane had left to acquire a rental car for himself. Again, as was his luck, she was gone by the time he got back to the hospital, the doctor laughingly telling him she had demanded the siren be used the whole way.

He had followed behind, driving as fast as he dared, not wanting to be slowed even further by a traffic stop, arriving at Sacramento General a little over an hour after her only to find that she had checked herself out against doctor's orders. He knew Grace had carried her retrieved cell phone to Malibu and had left it at her bedside at Good Samaritan. When his third call went directly to voice mail, he had to consider that if he were _unduly_ paranoid, he would think Lisbon was avoiding him. Not wanting to push her, he went to the CBI. And not wanting to face anyone or do any work without her there, he went directly to her office.

He sat and read at her desk, stopping occasionally to go through her things, one drawer or shelf at a time, then made himself tea and returned to sit and read on his end of her couch. By mid-afternoon he felt his concentration slipping and found it difficult to keep his eyes open. The team was in the bullpen and Wainwright was back at work, and he knew if anyone really needed him they would know where to find him. So, he rested his book on her file cabinet, stretched out, covered himself with the blanket, sniffed deeply at the pillow and fell asleep.

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He had become expert at gauging the length of his naps based on the dryness of his mouth and how settled he felt on whatever surface he slept. It had been about two hours by his reckoning. He rubbed his eyes then opened them in an exaggerated stretch, only to find Grace facing him head on, sitting in a chair she had pulled up next to the couch. She was well settled, legs crossed comfortably, elbows resting on the chair's arms, hands lightly clasped in front of her.

"So?" she asked him expectantly.

"So . . . what?" he countered in confusion.

"So how did it go?"

"How did what go?"

"Your talk. With Lisbon."

"She was asleep, Grace. It's not like—"

"_After_, you idiot."

"After what?"

"Look," she said, leaning toward him almost menacingly, "We can do this the hard way or the easy way."

"Okay, okay! Sheesh, there's no need for threats."

"Neither you nor I am leaving this room until you spill."

"There's nothing _to_ spill." He explained at her dubious look. "She woke up, I got kicked out of the room, I got her a ride back to Sacramento and she was gone by the time I got back from arranging my own ride. By the time I made it to Sacramento General she'd flown the coop, and the lady is currently not answering my calls," he finished airily, certain his explanation would satisfy her and garner sympathy as well.

"She's home."

He arched an eyebrow at her, and she rolled her eyes back at him. "She'd been in that basement for more than two days with no shower privileges after the few nights she'd already spent here."

"There are showers here." He wished instantly he could take back the petulant outburst.

"Not _her_ shower. She wanted to go home. And do something about her hair."

"What was wrong with her hair?"

"Did you see it?"

"Of course, I saw it." And he had thought she looked fine. Beautiful even, as ever.

A small knowing smile lit her face then expanded into a full grin. "It just needed to be . . . cleaned up a little."

Just then, Cho and Rigsby pulled the door open and leaned in. "Well?" Cho asked.

"Says he didn't get a chance," Van Pelt answered, her eyes never leaving Jane. Both men walked in the rest of the way, Cho stepping up just behind and to the right of Grace and folding his arms across his chest, Rigsby sauntering over to lean against the file cabinet to look down at Jane where he still lay on the couch.

"Whatsa matter, man? Lose your nerve?"

"No," Jane replied, mildly offended. "It's like I said, there wasn't time."

"You were there all night," Cho stated flatly.

"She didn't wake up until this morning."

"And then?" Rigsby asked.

"And then," he said, sitting up. "I was hustled out of her room by some biddy that takes herself too seriously. I got the doctor to send Lisbon home by ambulance, and I couldn't ride back with her. So, I had to go rent a car. By the time I got back to the hospital she was gone, and—"

"And she's been running ever since," Grace answered teasingly.

"Huh," was Cho's only response. Rigsby lowered his head and snickered.

"'Huh' what?" Jane asked, starting to get irritated at having to explain himself and that he was sounding a little pathetic doing it.

"I've seen you cheat your way to a quarter mil in a high-security casino, set up an ex-Mafia boss, dress up a dead body to get a confession, make yourself tea in the kitchens of multiple killers and victims, drive blind-folded . . . and you couldn't find five minutes to tell Lisbon you've got the hots for her."

"I've got the hots—First of all, I would never say that . . . Probably. And five minutes? You don't think I'd want to take a little more time than that?"

"What's to say? You want her, she wants you. As long as you're not trying to do a magic trick or boring her to death with significa, you should be able to get that in at just under three, three-and-a-half tops."

Rigsby could barely control his laughter by that point. Just then, much to Jane's relief Luther Wainwright stuck his head in and looked at them all quizzically.

"Well?" he asked.

"Couldn't do it," Grace informed him.

"Don't think he has the balls for it," Cho chimed in.

"Totally ball-less," Rigsby snorted.

"Really?" Luther looked at Jane in disappointment. "I guess it's just as well we didn't do the pool then."

"Can't bet when there's nothing happening."

"We could bet on how long it'll take Jane to grow a pair."

"Grow a pair? Does that mean he didn't do it?" Lydia Stanton slid through the open doorway behind Wainwright just as her phone rang. She stepped to Lisbon's desk to answer discreetly, her voice quickly rising to conversation level. "It was a no-go. Apparently Jane's ball-less . . . What? They're all saying it! . . . Yeah, I'll call you if anything happens." She snapped her phone shut. "Wyatt says you should grow a pair, too."

"I think that's fairly unanimous," Luther responded, stepping fully into the room and tucking his hands into his trouser pockets.

"Is that it? Are you all done?" Jane asked, smiling a little too broadly at their teasing.

"I'm not done," Cho answered flatly and looked down at Van Pelt. "Are you done?"

She looked up over her shoulder at him. "I'm nowhere near done."

"Done what?" Howard Tell asked stepping into the room to join them.

"Trying to find out why Jane hasn't got the balls to tell Lisbon he's got the hots for her."

"Oh, that's an easy one."

"Do tell," fished Lydia.

"He's scared of 'er."

"Scared of her," Rigsby said in disbelief as he turned to Jane. "She can't be as scary as Sonny Batalia."

"Oo, you know Sonny Batalia?" Lydia asked, her curiosity piqued.

Jane held up his hands in surrender and looked at Lydia. "Yes, I know Sonny Batalia, and it's really not that interesting a story."

"He broke into his golf game and then prank called him," Rigsby related.

"Maybe he should prank call Lisbon," Cho rejoined.

Ignoring them both, Jane continued. "And I am not going to tell Lisbon I've got 'the hots' for her . . . probably. And I'm going to want more than five minutes, no matter what I say to her, and I don't need to grow a pair, thank you."

He finally looked at Howard Tell, round-eyed with sincerity. "However, I am willing to admit, quite frankly, that I am a little scared of her."

Amidst their laughter, the older agent tried to offer him some advice. "I say you just take the bull by the horns—"

"Which will require balls," Rigsby insisted.

"—bite the bullet—"

"Or be ready to duck one," Grace counseled.

"—use as few words as possible—"

"Let's stick with something easy for him," Wainwright interjected.

"—grab a hold of 'er—"

"Please don't say cleanse her musculature," Lydia pleaded.

"—and just haul off and kiss 'er."

"And wear a cup," Cho deadpanned. "For your newly grown balls."

"You know, innocent fun aside, I really wish you'd stop saying that. It's putting me off the whole thing."

Grace decided to take pity on him, and the others followed her lead. As they headed out of the office, the discussion continued amongst them about what they saw as Jane's abject failure in what, they believed, should've been a fairly easy mission. At Wainwright's "Does this mean we're not doing a pool?" wafting back just before the door glided closed, Jane stood to pace and consider, first closing the blinds to make sure he had privacy as he did so.

In spite of their teasing, he knew they were right. He did need to talk to Lisbon. But he was right too. He would want more than five minutes. He was sure easing her into the idea of even hearing him out would take that long. (The rogue thought that a magic trick wasn't a bad idea popped into his head, but he dismissed it nearly at once.) Then there would be a long discussion on whether they were right for one another (and whether they could survive one another) followed by the obligatory droning about rules, regulations and protocols.

All in all, his first conversation with Lisbon on the topic of romance was shaping up to be pretty boring.

But then, even their most mundane moments sparked with humor and wit, sometimes anger and threats but always passion and pleasure. And that thought suddenly had him breathing deeply and looking forward to that talk. He would give her another full day, which—today being the 22nd—would put their talk on Christmas Eve, which—it occurred to him—would be rather like a one-year anniversary for them—one year since the first time that began their "next times". Which would work well because he knew exactly where she would be and what she would be doing, both that day and the next (condo and ice cream). He smiled to himself wondering if she'd like to take in a movie on Christmas Day. It had been a long time since he'd been, let alone taken a _date_ . . .

That was weird. He didn't remember going on dates, not a full-fledged one. There had been plenty of women when he was still working for his father, but he wouldn't classify his interactions (for lack of a better word) with them as "dates". Angela hadn't been allowed to go out, his own dad didn't want him forming soft attachments and Jane hadn't wanted to pit himself against both fathers. He and Angela had left the carnival by way of elopement, so his only real "dates" had been with her after they were married.

He looked down at his moving hands and realized he was reorganizing Lisbon's desktop, beanbag in hand. He was thinking too much. Everything in their relationship over the years had happened and developed naturally over time, and this would come naturally as well. This would be fine. He would be fine. They would be _fine_.

He dropped the beanbag onto the desk then repositioned it and walked to the door rubbing his palms slowly down each side of his vest as he went. After leaning out to see if the coast was clear, he slipped through the door and strode to the break room. Tea was just the thing.


	12. With the Dawn of Redeeming Grace

12. WITH THE DAWN OF REDEEMING GRACE  
><em>- Silent Night<em>

Luther Wainwright stepped to the bullpen door and observed the Serious Crimes Unit. In spite of recent events, they had all come in, even Jane, which the young boss found a little strange, given that as far as the consultant knew, Lisbon was in town but elsewhere. Each of them had come in in varying degrees of lateness—but nothing worth comment—to be met with news of a murder in the affluent Sacramento suburb of Granite Bay. Cho had gone over the few details they already had about the case as well as some of the individuals with whom they would be dealing, and they were waiting on a call from Bertram's office before heading out. Wealth generally meant bigwigs, and since this one was close to home the director wanted to make certain they had all of their ducks in a row.

Minus the murder part of it, Wainwright knew they would be glad to be working on something not related to Red John, let alone the kidnapping of a colleague. Yet it appeared their minds were somewhere else entirely. Cho was reading a book that didn't seem to hold much interest for him, Rigsby was aimlessly and repeatedly tossing a crumpled ball of paper and catching it and Van Pelt was idly messing with something on her computer that—even with the volume turned down—sounded suspiciously like Halo.

And then there was Jane, who for very understandable reasons that Luther was now able to accept, didn't seem to have any interest in much of anything having to do with work, already having strongly hinted that he wouldn't be going out on this case due to a general dislike of bigwigs.

He had heard comments around some of the other units about Christmas decorations and gift exchanges in the past in the SCU and had noted the lack of both with the team this year, again understandable. And while most people wouldn't see the correlation between that lack and their current attitudes, Luther was a young man of discernment and insight and he knew exactly what was going on.

From solving crime to putting on Christmas, their heart just wasn't in it. All of this flashed through his mind in a moment, and he felt the light but impatient nudge at his back. Suddenly just as eager to put them out of their misery as he was to be the bearer of glad tidings, he angled himself forward, tilting his upper body into the room.

"Hey, guys. Thought you could use an early Christmas present."

Their heads turned as he moved aside, and Lisbon stepped into the room. Van Pelt was on her feet in an instant offering a light hug of welcome, not wanting to cause hurt in case the boss was more fragile than she appeared. Rigsby and Cho followed, though more awkwardly, all three of them asking her if she was all right and should she be at work and by turns teasing and complimenting her on her hair.

"I've been resting for two days, and my only injury is a fractured wrist. I've been cleared by a doctor for light duty, so I'm good."

"Let me guess," Grace said with a knowing smile. "Dr. Lydia Stanton."

"She's qualified," Lisbon defended. "And she'd be the first to tell me to get my butt home and in bed."

No one could argue with that. And no one had missed Jane not rising to greet her and the combination of slightly miffed and slightly hurt expressions on Lisbon's face. Luther turned to look at the consultant, trying to will him off of the couch. Greetings finished, Lisbon turned to head to her office and await Bertram's call as the others went back to their respective places, all of them looking questioningly at where Jane lay on the brown couch feigning sleep. Luther merely shook his head at the man's idiocy and turned to head after Lisbon, not wanting her first moments in her office to be spent alone—especially after Jane's obvious rebuff— and to see if she might need help settling in. He was nearly halfway down the hall when he heard her exclamation.

"What the _hell?_"

It was too low-pitched for a scream, but the volume was definitely on high. A rustle of movement behind him had him swiveling his head to the brown couch where Jane slowly stood, brushing down his vest then straightening his cuffs, a small secret smile playing at his lips. As if he had been waiting on the cue for his entrance, he sailed past Luther with a friendly nod, his eyes alight with mischief. Without permission or invitation, he pushed Lisbon's office door open and waltzed through as if he owned the place. Luther, a little more circumspect, merely walked to the door and peered into the room, hiding his hands in his deep trouser pockets.

"Who's been in here?" Lisbon questioned angrily. "Somebody's been touching my things—" she continued, her finger pointing accusingly at said out-of-place things, "—moving my stuff."

Glaring around her office as if the room itself had betrayed her, she moved to her desk chair and literally dropped into it, misjudging its height, her chin nearly grazing the desktop in its lowered position. Her eyes rounded in surprise then narrowed as they followed Jane's entrance and stroll to her couch where he laid down on his back and folded his hands over his chest.

"Jane?" It was long and drawn out, combined question and threat.

"Well, Mama Bear, your chair was too high, your desktop too cluttered, but—" he paused and snuggled deeper into the cushions. "—As always, your couch was ju-u-ust right."

She placed her hands palms down on her desktop, slowly as if she were attempting to gain control, and pushed herself up to stalk around the desk. She stepped to and just against the couch looking down at his placid features, his hands clasped over his chest, his eyes lightly closed. Then, she kicked the couch. Hard. Her knee slammed against his upper arm where it protruded slightly past the edge of the seat, jostling him with the impact. It was the first time she'd ever kicked _her_ couch in frustration with him. He lazily opened his eyes and smiled sweetly at her. She countered with another glare as she brought her clenched fists up to rest on her hips.

"Well, _Goldilocks_, why don't you use your own desk for something other than keeping your crap on it?"

"I just wanted to see what it felt like to be on top," he answered innocently. Oh, how he had missed this game.

Her whole face shifted and pulled as she gulped. He waited for her to sputter indignantly and snark at him or, much preferably, for her face to flame in embarrassment, but Wainwright's belated stunned gasp from behind her focused her too quickly for him to have any real fun with her. She leaned forward and grabbed two handfuls of the front of his jacket and heaved, and he wondered what other fun might be had before he was heartily jerked upright—thankfully his quick instincts had him landing on his feet—and was unceremoniously shoved out of the room. Luther backed up quickly to avoid collision, and both men stood staring at the door as they heard the lock click violently into place. Wainwright slowly considered the glass, metal blinds still vibrating against it.

"Well . . .," he stumbled, "it's good to have her back."

"Mm," Jane agreed, his attention focused somewhere other than the young man at his side.

"Along with the _added_ benefit . . .," Jane was aware that Wainwright was facing him now, a little smirk playing at his lips, "of having _you_ back to work as well. I trust you'll be able to function at 100% now?"

Jane at least had the good grace to look sheepish. He also knew it would grease the wheels for the next part of the conversation. This would be easier than the more formal version he had cringed at envisioning taking place in Wainwright's office.

"Um. About that . . .," he paused, marshaling his prepared pitch and fortifying his smile with a beaming confidence. "I know you were part of the taunting session yesterday, but I have to ask—just for clarification of course—does that mean-"

"You know, I've learned a lot in the short time I've been here," Wainwright interrupted as he turned to look back at Lisbon's closed door. Jane felt the corners of his mouth descend just a little, unsure of Luther's direction.

"From Van Pelt, I've learned not to judge a book by its cover."

He paused and looked at Jane briefly, taking the consultant's nod as a sign of understanding before turning back to the glass, his hands still in his pockets.

"From Rigsby, I've learned loyalty. Aside from immediate family, team comes first. And from Cho, I've learned—_am learning_," he corrected, "to gauge events as they happen."

Jane waited, knowing the pause was for dramatic effect.

"And from Agent Lisbon . . .," he paused again and drew a deep breath, still not looking Jane in the eye but speaking with deep conviction. "From Agent Lisbon I've learned that while the rules, the regulations, the protocols are very important, _they serve us_. Not the other way around."

"So that means . . ." Jane was flustered by his sudden eagerness to know but not sure how to phrase the question. It seemed Wainwright wanted to make something clear without actually talking about it. Luther turned to look at him, suddenly boss and politician and cop and colleague all rolled into one.

"It means, Mr. Jane, . . . if something works . . . I'm too smart to try and fix it."

Wainwright, too proper and straight-laced to actually wink, merely turned and sauntered down the hall leaving the consultant to his own devices in the matter.


	13. Epilogue: Christmas Eve Will Find Me

**The actual next "Next Time".**

EPILOGUE: CHRISTMAS EVE WILL FIND ME  
><em>- I'll Be Home for Christmas<em>

The workday finally over and the case solved, Jane made the short drive back from Granite Bay to the city center and the hotel where the CBI was hosting its annual Christmas Party. He knew Lisbon would be putting in an appearance but was certain, in light of her shortened hours the day before, she wouldn't be staying long, wanting to go home and rest in spite of her assurances that she was all right after her ordeal.

Jane had initially been frustrated at the turn of events that had brought this case to their attention, fearing it would interfere with his intentions to finally pin Lisbon down (He shifted in his seat at the turn of phrase.). Alexander Claridge, the son of money and up and coming magnate in his own right, had been bludgeoned to death in a deep grove at the back of his property. His wife, Phoebe, had been delicate to the point of fragility but proved helpful in the investigation as she had known much of her husband's business, both professional and personal. Once the killer, a former financial partner, had been apprehended, the young widow had appeared on the verge of collapse. Her older sister had been contacted nearly as soon as the body was discovered but distance and holiday travel kept her from arriving until late today. Jane had easily developed a rapport with Phoebe early on and had been reluctant to leave her on her own. He had stayed for the two hours until her sister's arrival, and the two women had gratefully seen him off. Duty behind him and pleasure awaiting, he increased his speed to cover the last few blocks quickly.

The room was full, nearly packed. Though difficult, it had been a good year for the Bureau, and most of the employees had turned out to celebrate together. He saw Grace almost immediately, her heels adding to her height, laughing at a joke made by one of the records clerks—Rosemary, Jane believed her name to be. He stood for a moment taking in her relaxed posture and easy smile, which only brightened when she turned and met his eyes. She stretched up to better survey the room then pointed toward the dance floor.

Following her direction, his gaze landed on Cornell from Organized Crime who had apparently decided against inebriation in favor of a good time worth remembering. He looked back to Grace, his expression confused, and she pointed again more aggressively. As he turned back, Cornell turned to reveal the woman in his arms to be Lisbon. Jane's vision went red at her smiling up at him, not caring that the look was slightly strained with the effort. He tugged once at his lapels and headed straight for her, remembering to temper his pace and his words. Smooth was the thing—he didn't want to put her off at this point.

Rigsby grabbed his arm as he walked by. "Hey, man!" he shouted over the din. "Glad you were able to tear yourself away from the pretty widow! Hey! Say hello to Carlie in Fraud! Have you met Carlie?"

Jane shook his hand off and refused as politely as possible before looking back at the dance floor, irritated that Cornell and Lisbon had moved from their previous position. Catching sight of the tall man again, Jane shifted direction, only to be stopped by Cho.

"Sister got there? Good. Heading to the bar? You want a drink? Bertram's actually buying. I think he's three sheets to the wind. If you want something, now's the time to take advantage!"

Tempting as that entire scenario was, Jane had a higher objective and motioned to the dance floor. Cho glanced in the direction he indicated and frowned then turned back to nod at him and pat his back heavily in encouragement and understanding.

Wainwright was next. "Where have you been?" he shouted above the music that grew louder as one got nearer the dance floor, his tone slightly colored with offense.

"Why?" Jane shouted in response, his eyes searching for Lisbon once more. "Did I miss something?"

"No. It's just . . . Did you really stay with the widow?"

"Yeah! She shouldn't have been alone!"

"What?"

"She needed someone with her!"

Luther stared at him a moment in disbelief then shook his head to clear it. "Lisbon's on the dance floor! With some big guy!"

"I know!"

"What?" Wainwright near shrieked as the music crescendoed.

Jane only shook his head, motioned toward his ear then pointed toward the dance floor. Luther nodded his understanding and left him to it. Jane decided if one more person stopped him they'd get punched. Finally reaching his destination, he looked about in dismay. Lisbon was nowhere to be seen, and Cornell was standing in the corner alone.

Making his way back the direction he had come, he bypassed the bar hoping Grace was somewhere near her original position, only to be caught hold of by Rigsby again.

"Hey! Jane! You just missed the boss!"

"What?"

"I said. You. Just. Missed. Lisbon!"

"I heard what you said. What do you mean, I just missed her?"

"She came by a minute ago. Said good-bye to all of us and told us to tell Wainwright 'Merry Christmas'."

She was gone. She was gone, and she hadn't waited for him. Frustrating, irritating, stubborn, difficult woman. He sighed heavily and looked down at his shoes. She was upset with him for some reason. She would have waited otherwise. Probably would have insisted on staying with him at Phoebe Claridge's if she hadn't been . . . He groaned aloud.

"Hey!"

He'd forgotten all about Rigsby.

"You okay, Jane?"

He looked up into the agent's slightly bleary but concerned eyes and watched as comprehension dawned.

"Said she left her phone at the office. Headed there before she went home." Jane was pushing his way through the crowd before the words were all the way out. "Merry Christmas, man!"

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She pushed the elevator button and waited for the car to descend to take her up to the SCU floor. The party hadn't been so bad. She'd made a show of it, talking up Bertram and Wainwright, and when Cornell had asked her to dance, his expression so hopeful, she had said yes. No need for everyone to be disappointed. The doors opened and she entered and slumped against the wall. She would allow herself this brief wallow in self-pity, collect her phone, look longingly at her couch as well as his then leave for her hastily thrown-together holiday.

She had thought . . . so many things. But seeing Jane with Phoebe Claridge had really opened her eyes. Most men have a type. Rigsby liked long hair, auburn to outright red, and an easy smile and sweet demeanor. Cho preferred a bit of an edge that didn't interfere with his being the protector. And Jane . . .

"_Did you say you're soft on her?"_

"_She's a gorgeous grieving widow. Of course. Maybe a little."_

Maybe not the gorgeous grieving widow and maybe not Phoebe Claridge specifically, but that _type_. Soft and delicate, in need of someone to take care of her, inspiring devotion and the whole knight-in-shining-armor bit who wouldn't feel awkward in a dress made of pink froth. A real princess, not an angry one. It had, after all, been his original choice.

The elevator pinged, and she stepped onto her floor and walked to her office. She spotted her phone with an "Ah" and pocketed it, looking around the room and keenly missing a key element.

"There you are." His voice was quiet and smooth, soft and charming.

_Snake_, she thought almost bitterly.

"Here I am," she said brightly. Turning slowly toward him, she pulled out the phone she had still been clutching in her hand and waved it at him, not meeting his eyes. She had missed him, had wanted him with her, but right now she really didn't want to see him. Or vice versa.

"Came back for my phone."

"Rigsby told me. I came looking for _you_. Tried to get to you where you were dancing with that buffoon, Cadwallader."

"Cornell," she corrected, knowing he knew the difference.

"Right."

He lifted himself from where he'd been leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her and came two steps closer. She visibly shied, and he stopped. He could afford to be patient. She'd have to go through him to get away now.

"Everything all right at the Claridge's? Sister arrive?" she asked uneasily.

"Everything's fine."

"Well . . . I'm sure Mrs. Claridge was grateful for your . . . help." She stood awkwardly for a few seconds before she attempted her escape. "Well, I need to get going. Merry Christmas, Jane."

She started toward him, and he knew she meant to sidestep widely around him. He held up his hands, palms outward and stepped to the side to block her path. She stopped abruptly and stepped the other direction, and he did the same. They were still feet apart, but she pulled up as if he were too far inside her personal space.

"Jane, I've really got—"

"Will you just hold still for a minute?" he asked exasperatedly.

At that she looked up at him, and he dropped his hands and let the mask fall away. When she saw what was there, she drew her shoulders up in a hopeless shrug, and the words tumbled out in a whisper.

"I'm not what you want."

He couldn't have been more shocked, and in his effort to be completely transparent with her he didn't have time to hide it.

"We've known one another, been friends for years," she stumbled on. "And we've been through a lot, and I've saved you and you've saved me, and we've had to watch each other be hurt, and we've been so close, closer to each other than anyone, and I think you've confused that with something else."

Honestly, how did this woman get to be a cop before he came along?

"Phoebe Claridge—"

"I'm not interested in Phoebe Claridge—"

"Not her specifically. But that type."

"What type?" he asked suspiciously, turning his head slightly as he narrowed his eyes at her.

"The soft, fragile, fainting couch type. Maybe not with the fainting. But somebody more . . . not . . . like me."

She looked so woebegone that he just wanted to grab her up, but he let her continue, getting it all out. He never wanted to have to deal with this again. Besides, he was curious about just where and to what extent her mind had gone.

"But somebody like her. Like Phoebe," he prompted.

"Yes. Somebody soft and feminine and loving and caring, who makes you want to protect her—" He opened his mouth to remind of her something, but she cut him off. "—who _needs_ you to protect her. Put her in an ivory tower and her be all right with that and keep her safe and her be all right with that too."

She paused to take a shaky breath.

"The past is behind you now. You need to move forward."

Apparently she'd gone far enough to have him married off and out the door.

"_Forward_, you say."

"Yes," she nodded determinedly.

"That's what you want. For me to move _forward_."

She wilted a little. "I want what's best for you, what will make you happy."

"By going _forward_."

"Yes." This was hard enough, and she was starting to get irritated.

He tried not to smile in pleasure. Lisbon had it bad. Nearly as badly as he did. She was so intent on trying to not fall apart as she let him go that she hadn't even noticed he had been slowly advancing on her.

"I just want to make sure. The last time I did this your reaction was rather violent."

She just barely squeaked out a "Huh?", and he had her. All of her. In his arms, and he was kissing her. Tell had been exactly right.

"_Take the bull by the horns. Bite the bullet. Use as few words as possible. Grab a hold of 'er—"_

She pulled her lips from his with a deep gasp, unable to step out of his tight, unrelenting embrace and dropped her head back to look up at him.

"What are you doing?"

"Hauling off and kissing you."

"What?"

"Advice from a very wise friend."

"Let me go."

"Are you going to punch me?"

"No."

"Promise?"

"I said I wouldn't. And you're always bragging about being able to read me."

He'd been staring down at her lips the entire time they talked, wanting to take possession again. Now he pulled his head back so he could see into her eyes without crossing his. Satisfied, he huffed out an approving "Good."

"You're not letting go," she reprimanded, ignoring her arms winding around his neck.

"I never said that I would."

"Jane—"

"Ivory tower? Honestly, Lisbon, where do you come up with this crap? Let me guess. There's a guilty cache of paperback novels under your bed."

"There is no such thing—"

"And again, ivory tower? If I stash her there I have to live there too. Do you have any idea how boring that sounds? I'm afraid the life of excitement you've opened to me has ruined me for such a quiet, sedentary existence."

She couldn't resist snorting up at him, her heart growing decidedly lighter. "_Sedentary_ is the only life you have. I'm the one who does all the work."

"Yes. But it's so exhilarating watching you."

She smiled up at him begrudgingly trying not to show how pleased she was with his response.

"As for the other, I've been trying to get you to let me protect you for years, been specializing in it even. And I've never met anyone more loving and caring. Maybe not in the usual way, but you're the heart and soul of this place, and we all know it. You're feminine in your way, and as for soft . . ." His fingers gripped into her sides, and his voice dipped to a lazy rumble. "You feel ju-u-ust right."

She laughed and squirmed at his moving fingertips. "Call me Mama Bear again, and I will deck you."

"Deal." He squinted through her blinds to check the large clock on the hallway wall. "Three minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Huh." he murmured before swooping in for another kiss. She pulled back again, gasping and laughing this time.

"Enough," she panted. "Jane." She gave a push to his shoulders.

"Hm?" he mumbled against her neck.

"You have to let me go now. I've got to go."

"But," he countered, switching to the other side. "We're just getting started."

"I know. And I'm sorry. But we have to stop. I really do need to go." She was squirming now trying to slip from his hold.

"That's really not conducive to getting me to stop," he reasoned, his lips at her pulse point. It had surprised him to feel himself slipping so quickly, his rushing response to her movements, the mere feel of her in his arms robbing him of his control.

"But I've got to catch my flight."

He froze and stepped back to look down at her in shock.

"Flight?" He didn't care that his voice broke on the word.

"Yes," she answered regretfully.

"Where?"

"Back to Chicago. To see my brothers."

"Without saying anything?"

"The others knew."

He looked at her in hurt disbelief. "When were you going to tell _me_?"

She looked down uncomfortably, and he was suspicious again.

"When did you plan this?"

"Just a couple of hours ago. I managed to get the last seat on a late night flight. One of my brothers is picking me up at O'Hare early in the morning. I . . . just wanted to get out of town."

"Wanted to run away you mean. When you thought I was soft on Phoebe Claridge. Her _type_."

She didn't have to admit it out loud. The truth was written all over her. He wanted to give her a good shake. Instead he hugged her hard, one hand going to the back of her head, playing with the short curls the damp night air had brought out.

He turned his face into her hair and inhaled. "Don't go."

Her hold tightened in response to his plea, and she said regretfully, "They're expecting me—excited I'm coming—and the ticket's non-refundable. Besides you're the one who's always telling me I should go."

"And you decide to listen to me _now_?"

He pulled away from her and walked to the couch, laid down and threw one arm over his eyes. It was a tantalizing picture, his pouting over being apart from her for a few days. She groaned inwardly at her weakness and steeled herself against indulging him, not wanting to establish the pattern.

"Don't be such a drama queen, Hamlet. It's only for a few days."

She fell silent, and after a while he moved his arm a fraction to peek at her with one eye and was instantly enthralled by her expression. She was looking at him. He was used to her looking at him, searching his expression for truth or lie, even perusing the condition of his suit so that she could determine how many nights he may have slept in the attic or on the brown leather couch. But now, her eyes moved slowly over him, from his eyes up over his hair and around his face, down his neck, across his chest and along the length of his legs then slowly back up to his face, her gaze like a caress. His skin warmed, and the back of his neck tingled, his entire body reacting to her even more than when he'd been kissing her. Even better was that this was no objective ogling. She was looking at him with a specific purpose.

"What are you doing?" he asked lazily, irritation over her impromptu plans rapidly fading.

"Making a picture for my memory palace."

"Oh. And just what is this memory palace of yours?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Here. The CBI."

"Hm. And where will you keep this picture, Agent Lisbon?"

"Right here," she motioned around her office. "Where it belongs."

The last of his resentment flowed away, and he felt the space between them keenly.

"Come here," he said, back to low, sweet and charming.

"Can't. If we start anything I won't be able to stop."

"Promise?"

She smiled at him in warning, but he wasn't about to let her go just yet. Holding out his hand to her he repeated still softly but more firmly this time. "Come. Here."

She gave in and went to him, took his hand and sat next to him on the couch.

"I'll only be gone for a week," she tried to comfort him.

"_A week?_ What will I do for a whole week?"

"You could do your job."

"Lisbon," he whined.

"Jane," she countered, all authority. Jane had always desired, grasped for and enjoyed control in all of his relationships, but sitting on Lisbon's couch, touching her, with her looking down at him and talking in that take-charge way was a new indulgence he had to admit to himself he wouldn't mind exploring. As it was, he shifted to his side and back as if he wanted to give her more room when the reality was that he was trying to hide his body's continually growing reaction to her. If she could do this to him with just her voice . . .

She withdrew her key ring from her pocket and handed him the key to her condo's front door. "Here. I've got a spare in my car. I want you to go to my place if you need somewhere to stay. Will you do that for me?" He nodded compliantly, but she pulled the key away from him at the last second, the movement drawing his gaze from her hand up to her eyes. "But no snooping."

He nodded begrudgingly, willing to promise her anything at this point. She leaned over him to kiss him pausing for just a second, letting her breath mingle with his before making contact, and he wondered if she knew what she was doing to him. When she stood and let her eyes run slowly down the length of him he was sure she did.

She made to walk away, but he didn't release her hand. "I could come help you pack."

"I need to actually pack. And then leave. Your coming to help would defeat the purpose."

"I could drive you to the airport."

"I don't want a scene."

It seemed she was resolved and meant for this to be their good-bye. He sat up on the couch and drew her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, lingering over the taste of her skin. She smiled, turned and without another word walked away.

He wondered if this was to be his constant condition for the rest of his life now, this warm aching. He considered the ramifications of that thought, each and every one of them.

_What a difference a year can make._

Opening his fist, he looked down at the gleaming key. He knew where he would be spending the night. And he knew he'd better start getting used to it.

**END**

**Thank you all so much for reading. I know I probably said this would be the last of the series, but I realized I couldn't leave Lisbon without a welcome back. Plus the thing woke me up this morning writing itself. The New Year's Eve installment will be the final in the series. And that IS final. Oh, and so far it's rated M.**


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